Separation
by RapunzelK
Summary: It's hard being super. A young hero faces the prospect of starting again from the ground up. The only problem is, he isn't sure he has it in him to fly anymore.
1. Chapter 1

October 21, 1977

"You know, he was never really suited for field work."

"No," Dr. Karl Straussen agreed, "he wasn't."

The subject of their discussion made no comment; the many monitors around him equally silent save for the persistent sigh of the respirator. Almost two months since his initial injury and there was still no response from Carmine's inert body.

"Poor kid," Rick went on, "he always seems to get hit the hardest."

Karl nodded. "A result, I believe, of being both the smallest member of the team as well as the only one to hold down the defensive. Without his shields and first-aid, the other two are easier to deal with." It was grim logic, but Rick found he couldn't argue with it.

"He never should have gone active duty, but he wanted to help, wanted to be down in the trenches with his buddies…"

It was a frequent lament too often applied to supers gifted with non-offensive abilities. Carmine had an amazing power, to be sure, but Clairvoyance wasn't much good in the face of high-impact crises such as improvised explosives, runaway trains, giant robots, and nemesis three times his height, strength, and weight. He lacked the physical force and invulnerability of his teammates and was therefore a frequent visitor at the "SER". Too many supers had the same problem and NSA Agent Rick Dicker felt bad for them, but there were few ways to change the mind of a determined super. Not enough of them understood that day-saving didn't necessarily involve running around in a mask and tights. Despite Edna's designing brilliance, for the less sturdy supers, simple body armor often just wasn't enough.

"…and look where it got him."

Out cold for forty-eight days and counting, with a laundry list of injuries and broken bones, that's where it had gotten him. Lost deep in unconsciousness, Carmine had lain in the little hospital room unable to even breathe on his own, half a dozen machines doing the work for him. Though his bones were slowly yet steadily knitting themselves back together and the surface wounds were beginning to fade, the young super had yet to open his eyes. Rick had been half afraid the order might be given to pull the plug, but so far no instructions had been given. The remaining two-thirds of Trinity Prime had sustained damage of their own, though both boys had been able to return home after a few days. Carmine, however, seemed unlikely to leave his bed any time soon.

While his family had been notified by both a formal letter from the NSA as well as several telephone calls; the receiver had never been picked up and no reply sent through the mail. Friends came to sit with him in shifts when his teammates were unable to be with him. Nearly every member of the small church he attended took a turn sitting with him and bestowed casserole after casserole on his housemates. Both pastor and mentor came and laid hands on him as they prayed. As autumn faded and winter settled in, the weather and landscape outside the small single window changing cold and damp, the young man on the bed continued to lay still and unmoving. Despite this, a steady stream of visitors trickled in on an almost daily basis, many reading books to him in hopes that he might be able to hear. Recovery was not expected, but that didn't mean anyone stopped hoping that at any time he might open his eyes.

Ray, as a Clairvoyant with an original life-expectancy of his already exceeded twenty years, had had the foresight to leave a will. However, the document was vague and did not take into account his current circumstances. Clairvoyants, with so far this single exception, tended to drop dead at an early age from an aneurysm. Ray had expected such would happen to him and so had not made any other arrangements upon his untimely demise. If he had indeed been killed in action, that would have been manageable. However, he lay drifting in the empty limbo between consciousness and oblivion. Though his heart still beat and his brain appeared active, the monitor keeping track of his visions buzzed blankly with static. There lights were not on, though someone was home in there somewhere. Unfortunately, there was no power of attorney, no appointment of someone outside his immediate family to make the decision for him. To compound the confusion, there was also the fact that his family had disowned him several years ago, and were therefore unwilling to intercede one way or the other on their son's behalf. Nobody knew what to do, though everyone had an opinion, and so he continued to lie there, receiving every care and comfort the NSA could provide, completely unaware.


	2. Chapter 2

November 2, 1977

"I think…I think we should just let him go…" Charles stammered, his voice hitching in mid-sentence despite the resolve in his tone.

"Charles…" the word came out half plea, half disbelieving sob.

"Al, he's a _vegetable_, what kind of life is that? He's not even breathing on his own. He came _this_ close to being completely sliced in two. Even if he ever wakes up- which could be decades from now- he'd just be a talking head. He'd be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, unable to move or do anything for himself ever again. Do you think he'd be happy like that?"

Alex shifted in his seat, making the aluminum and plastic chair creak in protest.

"I dunno, Charles… I mean, what he believed…I don't think he'd want us to pull the plug on him. You remember how he was about stuff like that."

"And now you're referring to him in the past-tense too."

A choking silence settled over Dr. Straussen's office and inside Alex's throat. He hadn't realized the verbal slip until Charles pointed it out.

"I just…" Alex swallowed hard, doing his best to force down the lump in his throat. "I just can't deal with the idea of killing him myself…"

"Alex…" the word was soft, as was the touch on his arm. "We tried to save him. That's what heroes do. We tried, and we failed. It's murder on me too, knowing that we let him down, that now he's just an empty shell, but this would have happened sooner or later. Ray always knew he was going to die young, and while he did everything he could to extend his life, he knew in his heart that we would both outlive him. That's why he and Misty never took it past just hanging out, that's why he started a life insurance policy at nineteen. He was hedging his bets because he knew he probably wouldn't have that long to live no matter what he did. He knew the risks, he knew what could happen, and he was _okay_ with that, Alex. He was okay with dying. Why keep him trapped here? Why not let him go to heaven to be with his grandma; with his god?"

"Because it's not the same thing…" Alex husked. "If he had died there, in all the wreckage, in our arms, that would have been different. He's so helpless right now… Shouldn't we be standing up for him, doing everything we can to at least try to help him recover? What if he does wake up? What if he does want to live, even if it means being a quadriplegic? That's the kind of guy Ray is, Charles, and you know it. If nothing else, his faith wouldn't allow him to take another way out. He'd power through it like he does everything else and come out the other side stronger for it. I say we let him go at least a little bit longer. People have come out of comas after years of being dead to the world. I don't want to risk throwing away the chance of talking to one of my best friends again even if it doesn't happen until thirty years from now!"

"But there is _no hope_ that will ever happen," Charles insisted, pleading, voice rising in intensity if not in volume. "He's unconscious and he'll probably stay that way forever until someone shuts down his life-support. He is for all intents and purposes already _dead_, Alex, and there is nothing we can do about it."

The silence was heavy as the two men stared at each other, two sets of eyes, one blue; the other green, both determined and streaming with tears. To be so divided about a person they had loved as a little brother only made the pain of the situation worse. True, it was not their decision to make, but the hospital and NSA had asked for their opinion as the only family Ray had left.

"Oh I don't care what you do with him," Charles choked, turning and leaning his forehead in one hand to disguise his tears; Alex could only hang his head.

"Well," Dr. Karl began in his thick accent, folding his minute hands over the desk blotter, "there is one other option. It is risky, but if you are serious about wanting to do everything you can to help him recover, I'd like to offer it as an alternative."

The remaining members of Trinity Prime looked up, damp eyes trained on the little doctor.

"What is it?" Charles finally dared to ask. Karl nodded to his associate, a much taller man also dressed in a white lab coat.

"A distant cousin of the Cold War radio implant," he stated in a clipped British accent. "It's still in the experimental stages, but given his current circumstances, Mr. Kalahearn has very little to lose."

Karl shot his fellow PhD an annoyed look. "Julian, _please_."

"What?" Julian shrugged. "The boy has been lying comatose and in pieces for almost three months. I'd say it would be unlikely his prospects could get much worse. I think we can all agree that one way or the other; either dead or awake, he'd be better off." Nobody could really argue the point, and so the taller man went on. "Janesha and I came up with this little gadget. I'm hoping it should at least get your friend breathing on his own again, along with his other involuntary functions."

Reaching into his breast pocket, Julian withdrew a small arc of plastic. Seven wires, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, deep indigo, and pale violet, arced in a half-circle from one set of encased copper prongs to another.

"It looks like a Barbie comb…" Alex observed.

Charles blinked and picked up the device to better examine it. "You're going to get him breathing with a little plastic rainbow?"

Julian smiled. "More or less. The lab staff refers to it as that as well. Yes, this little rainbow will allow us to bridge the gap in your friend's spinal cord. If we can do that, he should regain at least some control of himself."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then he's no worse off than he is now," Julian answered calmly.


	3. Chapter 3

November 4, 1977

"Mrs. Kalahearn?"

Rick wasn't exactly sure what to expect. He'd never dealt personally with Ray's family before. What he knew about them he'd learned through returned letters, aborted phone calls, and unflattering stories from Charles and Alex. Ray himself had had little to say about them, perhaps because he felt uncomfortable defaming his own blood, no matter how bigoted. Either way, the petite, dark-haired woman staring blankly back at him did have a certain gravitas to her. Rick reminded himself that he was here not just on business, but on behalf of her youngest child and only son.

"Yes? If you're selling subscriptions or sharing the 'good news', I'm afraid we're not interested. We're staunch Baptists and if you want donations you'll have to speak to my husband's financial manager. Good day."

Clearly, she'd done this a couple of times. Before she could close the door completely, Rick spoke up:

"I'm here on behalf of your son."

"I don't have a son." She was seconds from slamming the varnished cherry wood in his face.

"He's been gravely injured."

The swinging door abruptly skidded to a halt an inch from the jamb.

"What?"

"Mrs. Kalahearn, your son has been severely injured in the line of duty," the words sounded like those of a military officer; then again, they were supposed to.

The door was open again, the blank look staring back at him.

"He was injured?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What happened to him," she asked at length. "Was he badly hurt?"

"I'm afraid so, ma'am. He sustained a broken neck and a severed spine."

_That_ got her attention.

"He _what_?!"

"Sustained a broken neck and a severed spine," Rick repeated, "and has been in a coma for close to three months now. We've been trying to contact you, but your husband has an excellent security team."

A long and very empty pause. Mrs. Kalahearn's expression remained as vacant as ever and Rick began to wonder if his dry, militaristic delivery had been too harsh?

"...would you like to come inside, Mr. Dicker?"

"Thank you."

Considering the home belonged to a senator, Rick had been expecting something a bit more elaborate. Still, according to Ray, the Kalahearn household had subscribed to a rather simple lifestyle even before the budget cap. The home and furnishings bespoke old world gentility; elegant, yet simple and practical. The decor appeared to be largely ancestral, the living room sofa of dark wood and thickly-stuffed velvet recalling an era when bustles had been in vogue. Rick sat on it gingerly, wondering how Ray and his three sisters had managed not to break the thing into splinters when they were children? He waited, politely balancing a cup of tea in an equally antiquated china teacup while Mrs. Kalahearn made a few phone calls. After fifteen minutes on the phone and another ten of awkward waiting, her husband arrived home and Rick had the unenviable task of explaining what had happened.

"Mr. Dicker," Senator Kalahearn offered the clipped greeting along with an equally brief handshake. "I'm told you're here on official business."

"Yes, sir," Rick replied, only his many years as mediator between the Super community and the rest of the world keeping him calm in the presence of the man who had banished Supers from the East Coast. "It's about your son."

The senator nodded. "Johanna said he'd been injured. Is that true?"

"Yes, sir. Your son was injured in the line of duty back in September. My company as well as the hospital has made numerous attempts to contact you, but did not receive any response. Ray is currently in a coma and the hospital would like to treat him, but can't without consent from his next-of-kin."

"What kind of treatment?"

If the man was concerned at all about his son, he gave little or no indication. Still, his responses, while curt, lacked the icy disdain that had initially frosted his wife's voice. Perhaps this _was_ what the senator looked like when emotionally distraught? Rick briefly attempted comparing the two Kalahearn men in his head, but soon gave up, the polarization giving him a headache.

"That I'm not entirely sure, you'll have to talk to the hospital yourself. I understand it's some sort of operation to reconnect his brain to his spinal cord, it involves new technology only recently put on the market."

The senator raised an eyebrow.

"Sir, your son was damn near killed. According to medical definition he is only a few brain waves away from being clinically dead. He is not conscious, nor is he breathing on his own. However, out of respect for his beliefs as well as the legal system, we need your permission before he is treated one way or the other."

The senator's eyes had grown narrow and cold. "What exactly happened, Mr. Dicker?"

Rick briefly outlined Ray's injuries and how he had gotten them, leaving out a few minor surface details such as the giant robot and mad doctor. While true, such superfluous side-notes tended to lead listeners into the realm of disbelief and Rick didn't want that. He had his work cut out for him as it was. There was an admittedly guilty satisfaction to be had in their expressions of slowly increasing horror as he described the three month coma, the spinal damage, ruptured organs, and broken bones. They listened in silence, Mrs. Kalahearn growing white while her husband's face became stony and grim.

"And the doctors believe he will recover after this treatment?"

"Physically, in time, perhaps," Rick affirmed. "However, this is all based on the assumption that he does, in fact, wake up. Should that happen, even with extensive therapy, it will take a while for his brain and nerves to get talking again, but that's skipping ahead somewhat. He needs to regain consciousness before we can think about anything else.

"What I need right now Senator, Mrs. Kalahearn, is permission to either treat your son, or to pull the plug. It isn't fair to leave the poor kid hanging, so to speak. Whatever he did to fall out of your good graces, I'd say it's time to forgive and forget. This is his life we're talking about."

"Not to sound callous Mr. Dicker, but what would such treatment cost? I am not a wealthy man."

Not filthy rich, but comfortable, certainly, Rick thought. Still, the Senator probably assumed an agency such as the NSA did not exist- which was just as well- and that any insurance Ray might have would not pay for something so elaborate and risky as the surgery Dr. Straussen had suggested.

"As an employee of my company, Ray has an excellent benefit package. We will continue to provide any treatment he may need. However, as I said, we can't take any further steps without your consent."

A long moment while the senator thought.

"Just sign here, or here, Senator," said Rick, pointing to various spots on the medical forms spread across the coffee table, "and I'll see Ray's wishes are carried out."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Dicker," the Senator stated, standing. "I'm going to fetch my son and bring him home."


	4. Chapter 4

November 20, 1977

"I'm sorry, you're hear to see whom?" the nurse asked, gray head and cap tilted to one side in confusion.

"Reuben Kalahearn."

The nurse gave the woman a quizzical expression and paged through the files yet again.

"The only 'Kalahearn' we have on record is a 'Raymond'."

"That's him; we've always called him by his middle name, to tell him and my husband apart."

The nurse blinked blankly.

"He's my son," the woman tried to explain, "I'm his mother, Johanna."

Light dawned in the nurse's eyes, as well as a briefly bewildered expression. It was common knowledge among the staff that Raymond Kalahearn was estranged from his family. Countless attempts had been made by the hospital staff to contact his relatives but to no avail. None of them, it seemed, had any interest in him, or so they'd thought.

"Mr. Kalahearn is in our IC unit, go up to the fifth floor reception desk and speak to the head nurse Margaret Phelps. As long as he's alone, you should be able to visit with him."

"Thank you."

The fifth floor was eerily silent, only the soft scuff of shoes and the distant beep of machinery accompanied the click of keys and shuffling of papers coming from the reception desk facing the elevators. Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Kalahearn crossed the floor.

"Excuse me," she asked softly, "I'm Johanna Kalahearn; I'm here to see my son Raymond Kalahearn?"

The head nurse, a motherly-looking woman balancing somewhere between forty and fifty, briefly goggled at her but nodded.

"This way, please," she stated, rising and heading down the stark white hall.

"I'm glad you've come, Mrs. Kalahearn," the head nurse remarked. "That poor boy has lain here for months now. He's had guests a-plenty, but you're the first of his own family to visit him. I couldn't tell you how many notices and phone calls we've made to you and your husband, but we haven't had a single one answered. I knew you'd come and see him if only you knew what had happened, there's not a parent alive that doesn't care if their child lives or dies, no matter what he's done. Here we are."

Mrs. Kalahearn had nothing to say to that, only waited in stony silence as the nurse knocked softly and poked her head into the room.

"Looks like he's alone at the moment, but someone usually comes in to read to him around this time."

"May I sit with him, please? It's been ages since I've seen him."

The nurse nodded. "Of course."

"Thank you."

She had half expected the room to be as bare and sterile as the hallways had been; instead Mrs. Kalahearn found it difficult to get the door open due to all the gifts and bouquets filling every available space. Ray had had few friends as a child, keeping a handful close and preferring the company of books to the noisier activities her other children had enjoyed. She had never imagined he would have so many friends, that he might be happy out here where she had thought- incorrectly, evidently- he would be all alone. Amazed, she struggled with a smile, unsure if she was happy for him or not.

It took a moment to discern the bed behind the half-dozen balloon bouquets tethered to the footboard and another moment for her to realize the figure lying upon it was her son. What wasn't covered by the soft white bedclothes appeared to be packed in plaster; one arm and both legs suspended in heavy casts scrawled with signatures and doodles. A wide plastic collar ringed his neck, holding his head in place while several tubes ran from his elbow to various machines. The ghosts of bruises and half-healed scars lingered on his visible flesh, the pale skin splotched and discolored by green and yellow. His dark hair had grown out longer than she had ever seen it, his bangs almost completely hiding blackened eyes and at least an inch of dark brown strands peeked from behind his neck. He was overdue for a shave as well. Beneath the tracheotomy mask, a few days growth was beginning to cast a faint shadow over his cheeks and chin. Funny. She would never have been able to picture her youngest child with facial hair, but it added an illusion of age to his otherwise boyish features, making him look more like his actual twenty-eight years than the teenager she remembered.

The many gifts and soft sliver of light slicing through a gap in the curtains into the dim interior made the room look more like a shrine than a hospital ward; her son in all his bandages and long hair like a saint's effigy clad in armor of plastic and plaster. Seeing him again, so badly hurt and yet so deeply loved by people who had filled his room to bursting with physical tokens of their good will when she had thought he would be alone and friendless was surreal. It had been ten years since she'd seen him last, a shy and silent teenager, still more boy than man. A lot had happened during those years; his youngest sister Leah had gotten married, had had children; but apparently Ray had not spent that time idly either. This broken creature in the bed wasn't the rebellious, sickly only son she'd cried over after he'd been banished from the family home; this was an adult, tall and muscled, capable- figuratively, anyway- of standing on his own. He had grown up without anyone to notice. What kind of man he had become, she could only guess.

"…the hell?"

The voice was low and masculine, belonging to a rather confused-looking young man with long, jet-black hair secured in a ponytail. A second man, almost too tall and too wide to fit through the oversized hospital door had edged into the room behind him.

"Mrs. Kalahearn?" the taller man asked blankly. It took a moment for memory to kick in.

"Mr. Porter, Mr. Rushford," Mrs. Kalahearn nodded politely. These were Ray's friends, the ones who had indirectly gotten him into this mess. She had little love for either one of them, but social obligation dictated she at least be civil towards them. The dark-haired boy, however – Charles, she thought his name was- didn't seem to share the sentiment.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Finally decide to pick up your phone?"

The sarcasm stung, but she let it glance off her wounded sympathies without flinching. "Mr. Dicker contacted us. He told us Reuben had been injured."

"His name is _Ray_. " The last word was almost snarled and Mrs. Kalahearn found herself taking an unconscious step back.

"Charles," the larger man rested a huge hand on his friend's shoulder.

"No, Alex!" Charles snapped, shaking him off. "I've been dying to let her have it for _ten years_ and I'm damn well not gonna keep my mouth shut now! She already thinks we corrupted her precious baby, what could possibly make her hate us more? What I want to know is why she waited _three fucking months_ before she came to see if her only son was alive or dead!"

"He might be able to hear you…" Alex nodded toward the bed. This seemed to sober Charles somewhat, for he took a step back, collecting himself.

"Mrs. Kalahearn, I want to tell you a few things about your son."

"I'm sure you do," she returned with icy grace.

"Your son," he began, "is a member of the Risen Son Presbyterian Church. He teaches Sunday school to five-year-olds, is part of the worship team, and leads a Bible study Wednesday nights. He's never missed a single day, not even after getting the snot beat out of him the night before. He'd still clean himself up and drag himself in at 7AM because he _wanted_ to be there, because it was _important_ to him.

"Did you know he helps coach middle school soccer? He told us the reason he volunteered was because his dad coached his soccer team when he was a kid and it was a good memory that he wanted the other kids to be able to carry with them when they got older. While he was in college he worked his butt off. Once he got his abilities under control his grades went way up. He never drank, he never smoked, he didn't do drugs; he only went to one party on invitation and left early because it was getting too crazy for his taste. He's never gone on a date or even gone looking for one. Instead, he formed an acapella singing group, and that group still exists. They even ask him to arrange pieces and direct them when he has time.

"He's done more community service than an ex-con; more than enough to make your senator husband look good on the campaign trail. He does most of the cooking and a lot of the cleaning at home. He never thinks about himself. Everyone else's concerns come way before his. He has hundreds of friends out here, all of which have come to visit him at least once. There were so many gifts and flowers Al and I had to give at least half of them away."

The tirade had started angry, but as Charles went on, tears began to well up in his green eyes.

"I've never once heard him complain about anything; he doesn't talk about himself. What he _does_ talk about is how much he misses you and all his friends back east. Al and I were furious when he told us you'd kicked him out, but all he did was cry. He cried because he couldn't meet your expectations, because he couldn't be what you wanted him to be. You revoked your love for him over the one thing he had absolutely no power to change, and he saw that as _his fault_, Mrs. Kalahearn. You've condemned a guy with a perfect record over a crime that doesn't even exist. All he's ever done is stick to the principles you taught him and done his level best to do right by people.

"I don't get it..." he said, shaking his head, emotion choking his voice. "Ray is the most loyal, honest, trustworthy, decent guy I've ever met. He grew up to be the kind of man you always hoped he would be. What do you _want_ from him? Is he not perfect _enough_?"

"Good works are all very well," Mrs. Kalahearn began, but Charles cut her off.

"Oh don't even _start_ with the holier-than-thou bullshit!"

"Don't you speak to me like that!" Mrs. Kalahearn shouted shrilly. "I will not tolerate that kind of language! My son may have been a model citizen out here where deviant behavior is tolerated, but I will never forgive the two of you for filling his head with such ideas! He was sick! He should not have been running around in a mask in tights like some crazed vigilante! Criminals should be dealt with by the police and if he had enrolled in the police academy or the military we would have supported him happily, but I cannot support this! I will not support your taking an innocent boy's illness and deluding him into thinking he is more than just a mortal man! He is only human and a mentally ill one at that! He should have been taking medication and seeing a therapist, not pretending to be a hero! And thanks to you now look what happened!"

Now it was Charles who was holding Alex back.

"Al, no, it's bad manners to hit a lady."

"'Lady' my ass," Alex growled, making the floorboards rumble. "You know you cut years off his life by having him take medication he didn't need? _Years!_ He's not mental, he's _Super!_ Don't you religious nuts believe in prophets anymore?! Because that's what he is, Mrs. Kalahearn, and if he dies you'll just be one more in a long line of people who've burned guys like him at the stake because of who and what he is. Then again, maybe you'd _like_ to have a martyr in the family."

Mrs. Kalahearn made no comment, instead pretended as if she had not heard him at all.

"Getting back to my initial question, what the hell are you doing here, anyway?" Charles asked, still struggling to keep Alex at bay.

"Reuben's- "

"_Ray_." Charles and Alex corrected in unison. Mrs. Kalahearn went on, unperturbed.

"An HR representative from Reuben's company contacted us. He said he needed treatment and that the hospital can't administer it without permission from his family."

"We already gave our consent," Alex grated.

Mrs. Kalahearn raised an eyebrow. "You aren't family."

"_We_ are not the ones who disowned our only son and youngest child after he'd suffered a major telepathic episode."

"Epileptic. And we gave him a fair choice."

"_What_ choice?!" Charles exploded, barging into Mrs. Kalahearn's personal space. "'Give up your talent or be disowned?!' Dude, it doesn't _work_ like that! He could no sooner give up his powers than he could his eye-color! It's built in! It's part of who he is! And if you can't accept that then I damn well pity you!

"So what are you going to do now? Bury him? Or do your lofty beliefs dictate that you keep him a vegetable for the rest of his life?!"

"We plan to consent to the treatment. Our son has made some poor choices in his life, Mr. Pine, we want him to live so that he may learn from them."

"I..._what_???" Charles sputtered, too dumbfounded to make an appropriately sarcastic response. Thankfully, Alex supplied one for him.

"I think that's Bigot for 'my son is not allowed to die until I get a chance to yell at him first'."

Charles was still too angry to form a complete sentence so Alex continued. "So you're really going along with the surgery?"

"Yes, Mr. Rushford. Contrary to whatever you might think, my husband and I love our son."

"_You love your son_?!" Charles finally burst out. "If you loved your son you wouldn't have-- "

"What on _earth_ is going on in here?!" It was the head nurse, Ms. Phelps.

"We were..." Alex began.

"I know you've got your differences," the head nurse hissed, her whispered voice carrying the fearsome intensity of irate authority, "but the room of a coma patient is no place for a screaming match! There are other people in this ward! If you want to argue you do it outside my hospital, do you understand?" She turned and eyed the boys who nodded dumbly, then swung her imperious glare towards Mrs. Kalahearn who seemed more than a little surprised at having the admonishment directed at her. She too nodded wordlessly.

"All right, then. Honestly, I'm ashamed of all three of you. Grown adults bickering like children in front of a sick man like this! He may well have heard every word you said! Just you think about _that_!"

"I hope he did," Charles muttered, "at least he would know _someone_ wants him well because they miss him, not because they owe him an out-cussing."

Mrs. Kalahearn opened her mouth but Nurse Phelps raised her hand and silenced the retort before it could be spoken.

"Enough. All of you, out. If you cannot behave, then you ought not to be in the same room. Boys, we'll have to reschedule for another time."

"Okay," Alex nodded sullenly, taking Charles by the shoulder and steering him towards the door. Mrs. Kalahearn's smug look was interrupted by further instructions from the head nurse.

"Mrs. Kalahearn, your husband is waiting in the foyer with Ray's physician, Dr. Straussen. He wants to have a conference with you both."

"Very well. Also, I would prefer Reuben be able to rest quietly until my husband and I can visit with him together."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Thank you."


	5. Chapter 5

November 23, 1977

Considering the patient had been comatose to begin with, an uneventful surgery was perhaps unsurprising. Still, Karl had been nervous about complications. Neurosurgery was always tricky at best, even with the added benefit of X-ray vision. However, the moment of truth had yet to come and he, Julian Xerek, and a few nurses stood ready just in case the worst happened. Should Julian's little Rainbow function correctly, Ray's body would begin acting on its own once again; the most notable symptom would be his choking on the respirator when his lungs began trying to press air in and out independently.

"Ready?"

Julian nodded. "When you are."

"Now."

Karl sensed more than saw the flicker of contact as Julian took a mental step back and reached to activate the rainbow. To Julian's practiced Technopath's ear, the rainbow's petite hum blended perfectly with the harmonic whir of the other machines. It was working beautifully, though nothing happened. The body continued to lay inert and silent and then—

"Good God!" Julian exclaimed, Karl internally witnessing the reason for his exclamation only a fraction of a second earlier. Ray's features contorted in pain and his body spasmed, twitching feebly where he lay. A dry gargling sound and trails of saliva began dripping from his mouth as his body fought the tracheotomy tube.

"Easy now," Karl told him, hurrying to remove the lengthy piece of plastic. As soon as the tube was out of his mouth, Ray turned and gagged, heaving bile and blood onto the pillowcase.

"Shh…" Reaching, Karl gently began rubbing Ray's back with one hand and signaled to one of the nurse's with the other. After a minute of ragged coughing, Ray gathered enough oxygen to turn his labored breaths into agonized moans. He could feel the pain of his injuries.

"_Gott danke…_" Karl murmured to himself, signaling the waiting nurse who emptied a syringe into the IV bag. Satisfied, Karl returned his attention to the sobbing young man, carefully laying a hand on his unbroken arm.

"It's all right, _junge_," he said softly, "Shh… Just rest."

As the sedative took effect, Ray's eyelids drooped and his tears subsided. In a few minutes he lay limp and quiet as before, the shuddering rise and fall of his bandaged chest permitting a fragile hope that after a few hours, he would awaken once more.


	6. Chapter 6

November 24, 1977

Mumbled moans alerted the nursing staff late the following morning. The sedative had worn off as well as the anesthesia, now Ray lay sobbing, unable to even so much as open his mouth to cry for help. Another syringe emptied into the IV bag, a few minutes for the pain killer to kick in, a warm, damp cloth to wipe the boy's tear-streaked face, and Karl felt he was ready to be debriefed.

"Ray?" he asked.

Dark eyes groggy with pain and medication squinted in the dim light of the hospital room, searching for the speaker, eventually settling on Karl. It took him a belated moment to remember why Ray was having trouble focusing. Reaching, he snatched the black-framed glasses from the bedside table and set them- a bit awkwardly due to the splint and tape- on Ray's nose. The boy winced briefly at the slight weight of glass and plastic and then seemed to collect himself. Collared in a neck brace and unable to move his head, he turned bleary brown eyes toward the little doctor.

"Don't try to talk, your jaw is broken and I'd rather you concentrate on breathing right now," Karl told him gently. "Blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no', do you understand?"

Deliberately, Ray scrunched his eyes closed for a moment.

"Good. Do you know who I am?"

Blink.

"Very good."

Ray's attention, the fog fading, did not remain focused on the small physician; instead he had begun glancing around the room as well as he could from his fixed vantage.

"Ray," Karl asked, prompting Ray's gaze to return to him, "do you remember what happened?"

The silence seemed to thicken as Ray searched his memory. Karl was no telepath, but he had worked with several and forty years as a doctor had taught him more than a few things about expression and body language. Ray's Adam's apple slowly bobbed in an exaggerated swallow, the rise and fall of his chest becoming short and jerky.

_Why villains had such a fascination with over-sized robots he would never know. Why the good guys didn't have a legion of their own twelve-story titanium soldiers was equally beyond him. Cobalt was dealing with the thing well enough and had managed to make it trip a couple of times; attempting to damage it close-up while Viridian fired volley after volley from a distance in a dual attempt to damage as well as distract. He, as ever, just tried to stay out of the way as well as he could, holding a protective barrier around himself and each of his teammates while dodging stray shots and debris. Though it was commonly known that Cobalt and Viridian did not fight without the third arm of their triad, the villain of the week hadn't seemed to have spotted him yet, despite his giveaway super suit of carmine red._

_The mech was huge and heavy, as such it was difficult to maneuver. Though it had plenty of firepower, it took a minute to swing the canon around and fire. By that time, one could leap out of the way to a safer location. "Safer", however, was something of a relative term in such a situation. Why did they always choose to make a mess downtown? The mayor had to be sick of all the wear and tear on the architecture. Never mind, now was not the time. One of the laser blasts had come uncomfortably close and Carmine had only enough time to dive to one side. Hurriedly he scrambled to his feet but too late, the thing had seen him. It took another shot at him but only managed one blast before a deafening "BOOM" and stench of ozone told him Viridian had seized the moment of distraction and forced the canon to backfire, exploding itself. This, however, did not solve their problems by any stretch. The mech was still standing, its pilot still cackling madly and screaming threats. Whatever. Everyone was a little more concerned with the two-ton arms and legs of the titanium colossus. Since its artillery had been disabled, it was now taking wild swings and attempting to stomp on anyone who got too close. Carmine shuddered as his friend's shielding suffered blow after blow. Abruptly, as if it had suddenly remembered an urgent appointment, the robot turned and lashed out one long arm._

_Crap._

_Though it did not touch his body, the appendage caught him across the middle, whacking his shield like a nine-iron and sending Carmine flying into space. Hurtling head over heels, he fought to control his momentum, to gather the necessary power and focus to use the trajectory to his advantage. However, the initial impact had left him spinning and disoriented. He had only a fraction of a second to notice it before he hit._

_The brick wall burst as if hit by a canon ball, the impact sending his already tumbling thoughts reeling and shattering his shield. He hadn't realized he'd been going so fast. Dizzy, Carmine tried to fight through the disorientation only to realize he was still sailing through the air._

_The opposite wall of the building did little more to slow him down. Most of the blow was taken by his shoulders, his body slamming into the heavy red blocks backwards. The impact stole his breath and made him wonder if his teeth had popped out of his mouth._

_A third explosion of dust and rubble met the back of his head, forcing him to a halt so abrupt that it seemed to take a moment for his own weight to catch up to him. 164lbs of super hero slammed back-first into the incomplete beginnings of a skyscraper, coming to a full and final stop._

_He lay there for a moment, not thinking or feeling anything. The distant, foggy shapes of Cobalt and Viridian had brought the mecha and its pilot to their knees, though the image appeared to him like blurry silhouettes of shadow puppets on a bed sheet curtain. It had gone strangely quiet, the sounds of battle becoming distant as an empty ringing filled his ears. The shouts of his teammates were vague and indistinct, they sounded as if they were calling his name. The white sound, however, was drowning them out and so he could not be sure._

_It occurred to him that he should be in pain. True, every fibre of his body was trembling from adrenaline and the impact, but nothing actually_ hurt_. Well, his neck ached and his head was bent at an odd and uncomfortable angle. He tried to move, to get up, to return to the battle to help, but found he couldn't. The distant, stomach-clenching feeling that something was horribly wrong with his own body stole coldly across him. He could not move; that alone terrified him. What frightened him worse was the hot, stuffy feeling gathering in his chest. Struggling to struggle, to shout, to call out, Carmine found he could not manage that either. The stuffiness was fading, but with the burning sensation had gone his ability to breathe. He gasped and heaved, watching, straining to hear, to communicate as Cobalt's horrified face looked down on him. Viridian's mental embrace was the last thing he knew before surrendering to the darkness._

The brown eyes that looked up at him had grown wide in panic before Ray could muster the self-control to blink.

Yes, he remembered.

"It's all right, just lie quiet," Karl soothed, resting a hand on Ray's undamaged shoulder. "You've been injured and you're in the hospital. I want you to know that even though you've been badly hurt, you're going to be all right. It's okay. You're going to be just fine. Do you understand?"

Another, less forced swallow and several minutes transpired as Ray regained his composure and offered a single blink.

"Good."

Ray was looking at him intently, eyes searching, his expression begging for answers, though all he managed in the way of a question was a weak "mph..." through his wired-shut jaw. This provoked a fit of coughing that left a thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"Shh," Karl admonished, dabbing the blood away and offering a drink of water which Ray accepted gladly. "You're worn-out. Don't try to think at me right now, save your strength. Your friends will be here later and Charles can translate for you, okay?"

Blink.

Karl smiled. "All right then."


	7. Chapter 7

November 27, 1977

When he opened his eyes, Dr. Karl was still there. If not for the differently patterned necktie, he might have thought it was the same day. As it was, even through the drug stupor, Ray's super instincts alerted him to this fact and by association that at least an additional twenty-four hours had gone by. He would have liked to ask what day it was, and what time, but his jaw still felt stiff and heavy with swelling and bridgework.

"Do you feel all right?" Dr. Karl asked.

Ray let his eyes drift closed for a moment longer than usual in reply.

"Good." A pause as the little doctor shifted on his step stool, as if unwilling to speak. "You…have some visitors."

Ray's expression visibly brightened beneath the bandages and bruising in the hope that his friends might be in the hall waiting to see him. Though he could not speak, Dr. Karl seemed to understand the question.

"I'm afraid it isn't the boys," he answered. "It's your parents."

Ray simply stared. His _parents_? It had been ten years since he'd seen them, as many since they'd last spoken to him. As far as they were concerned, he had died a decade ago. What on earth could they possibly be doing here?

"They've been very worried about you, you know," Dr. Karl went on, doing his level best to be reassuring, but Ray could see even he was having trouble believing his own words. "Your mother came down about a week ago to authorize treatment for you."

Ray made a mental note to update his will as soon possible. Dr. Karl was still talking.

"That was about three days ago. I told them they could visit with you as soon as you were well enough. Now it is entirely up to you if you want to see them or not, and I can certainly understand if you don't. However, I believe their concern is real, and if not for their consent, you would probably still be lying here unconscious."

He waited a few moments while Ray thought it over.

"Do you want to see them?"

He supposed it couldn't hurt. After all, what more could they possibly do to him? Scrunching his eyes closed, he gave Dr. Karl his answer.

"All right then. I'll be here with you, just in case."

Ray felt guilty about the relief that brought.

Hopping down from the short step stool, Dr. Karl crossed the floor and went out into the hall. After a few minutes, he opened the door again, admitting two much larger people. It had been ages since Ray had seen his parents. He had been a scant eighteen years old when they'd ejected him from the family. Ten years struggling to master a gift he couldn't control and rejection he didn't understand had hardened him into self-reliant adult. However, without that guilty sixth sense to help him, all he could see was that his parents had gotten older and grayer. Outside of that, very little had changed.

"Reuben..." his mother began, eyes welling up, "oh my dear..."

He'd forgotten how much he hated that nick-name. Even his grandfather- whom he'd been named after- had gone by his middle name (Edward) because he couldn't stand his given name. Still, unable to articulate much more than muffled grunts due to all the metal and plastic crowding his mouth, Ray could do little more than attempt a smile. It would be a lie to say he wasn't glad to see them; though it would be stretching the truth to say he was happy they were there. At first he had missed his parents and pined for their approval as only a son rejected could do, but after ten years, the idea that he could get along without their consent to everything he did or didn't do had become reality. Yet he couldn't help the nervous feeling crawling vaguely in his stomach. They would be angry about his living arrangements, about his friends, the time he'd spent do-gooding, and probably a hundred other things that he'd forgotten might offend them.

"Son," was all his father said. However, the single word covered a lot of territory and emotion that would never be given more than that single syllable. He was forgiven. Though the transgression might have been largely imaginary, it eased an ache in Ray's heart that he hadn't realized was still there.

His mother was gushing something through happy tears, holding one of his leaden hands to her face. Even with cotton gloves on her fingers and tears on her cheeks, if Ray hadn't looked, he would never have known he'd been touched. He would have liked to shy away, to draw his arm back, but the newly re-established connection between brain and nerves was tenuous at best and his arm would not obey.

"Don't worry baby, you'll be alright now," she was bawling. "We're going to take you home as soon as the doctors say it's safe."

Wait, _what_?! At once the medication haze evaporated. While glad of the newly-established goodwill, the last thing Ray wanted to do was return East. What on earth was he supposed to do back there? Open exhibition of super powers was prohibited, no thanks to his own father. It belatedly occurred to Ray that _he_ was the one who should have been withholding speaking privileges and not the other way around. Never mind. His mother was still babbling about his going home. As if the East could ever be his home. Current circumstances be damned, there were people here who could take care of him for as long as need be. What possible reason was there to go back? Ray did his best to negate the suggestion, doing his best to protest but managing only muffled grunts and a palsied twitch of his head.

"Reuben, darling, what's the matter?!" his mother cried, reaching to smooth his shaved-short hair. Mercifully, Dr. Karl intervened.

"I think that's enough for now," he said, reminding the Kalahearn's that he was still in the room. "_Raymond_," there was a deliberate exaggeration of the word, "is still recovering. It's best to let him rest for now."

For a man so small, Dr. Karl made short work of packing the Senator and Mrs. Kalahearn out the door. Both doctor and patient let out a heavy sigh when at last the visitors were gone.

"I have a new appreciation for you," Dr. Karl huffed, a wry expression on his face. Ray returned it but with more chagrin.

"You know you don't have to go anywhere if you don't want to."

Ray did his best to nod.

"You don't want to, do you?"

Hell no, he most certainly did not.

"I'll do everything I can to help you, I promise you that."

If nothing else, Ray reflected, at least this time he wouldn't be going up against his parent's stubbornness alone.


	8. Chapter 8

November 30, 1977

It would not be until days later that schedules coordinated to arrange another conversation. Ray was still weak and the pain medication made him groggy, causing him to sleep through huge portions of the day. This was probably just as well since many of his secondary injuries had yet to completely heal. A fractured jaw, a shattered arm and broken ribs, as well as countless other less serious bumps and bruises made the short list of the damage sustained in his last face-off with the forces of evil. The shaft of iron and concrete had cut him deeply, leaving a gash that had severed his spine, slitting his flesh starting at the base of his head and reaching around almost to his ears. The shrapnel had missed his major bloodlines by millimeters, only just nicking the back of his windpipe. Though the rainbow had restored some feeling and mobility, it would take time for his nerves and muscles to become fully reacquainted. Sensation was limited, movement sluggish and spasmodic, the half-felt touches of his caretakers inspiring uneasiness instead of reassurance. It was the numbed feeling of the rainbow punching through his skin and into his brain and spine that unnerved him the most.

The device was by no means a prototype, though Julian agreed it could use some fine-tuning. At present it protruded from Ray's neck in a colorful double-bridge; copper prongs embedded deep in his flesh with the wires outside. This would have made lying flat on his back extremely awkward if not for the neck brace. The padded, plastic collar had wide spaces for ventilation which allowed the wires to stick through without coming in contact with anything else. Even the slightest disturbance of the rainbow would pull on Ray's nerves, making him shiver and gag. While Julian perfected the design, Karl, with the help of many others, did what they could to build up Ray's strength as well as his spirits.

While the accident was not widely publicized by the media, local word had gotten around that both Carmine and Raymond Kalahearn had been seriously injured; Carmine in saving the day, Ray in the cross-fire. Despite having lain asleep for almost three months, during the sporadic moments when Ray did open his eyes he was met with the sight of a veritable garden of flowers, stacks of cards both bought and homemade, huge bunches of foil balloons, a zoo of stuffed animals, and countless other "get well" paraphernalia from the Super community as well as the general public. His Sunday school class had sent him a wide banner of construction paper scrawled over with crayon and poster-painted hand-prints, the 'Fedoras an over-sized card bearing dozens of signatures and a copy of their most recent CD. However, the most welcome gift was probably one he already had.

"Hey buddy, how you feelin'?" Charles asked, taking a seat where Ray could see him.

"Mph..." Ray managed through a jaw rendered immobile by wire and swelling, his mental response only mildly more articulate.

_Okay, I think._

The words scrolled past on the monitor meant to be documenting his visions, should he have any. Since the accident, nothing had shown on the small screen, and in the interest of convenience, Julian had reprogrammed the device to pick up and record conscious thought rather than unconscious. Charles had laid a hand on his friend's uninjured one and Ray eyed it warily. A sort of nervous discomfort shivered up Charles' own arm at the contact.

"...does that freak you out?"

_Kinda. I can only tell that there's something touching me; if I wasn't looking I wouldn't know it was you or if it was even a person. It doesn't feel warm or cold it's just...something there._ And he didn't like receiving only fragments of information like that.

"Sorry," Charles replied, retracting his hand. Ray, while not overtly "touchy-feely", had always found the touch of another person comforting. Now with that assumption reversed, it was difficult to remind himself that any such gesture would have the opposite effect than that intended.

_S'okay._

"At least that's something, right?"

_Yeah. Better than nothing._

A blank silence passed as Charles felt awkward and Ray felt tired, his eyelids drooping and attention redirected inwards. Alex shifted in his seat, belying his own unease. For a while no one said anything; Charles, because he wasn't sure if Ray was truly awake and Alex because he couldn't think of anything intelligent.

_Tired..._

The word was exhaled without syllables in a heavy sigh that probably would have hurt if not for all the pain medication. Supers with mental abilities had a reputably low tolerance for pharmaceuticals, but the already high doses prescribed to Ray probably could have been upped a bit in Charles' opinion. Barely dulled pain drifted just below the surface like black pond water beneath a layer of brilliant green scum. Too uncomfortable to fall asleep again, Ray lay quietly, going through the groggy mental paces that allowed him to take a back seat and become a passenger in his own body. Charles didn't blame him.

"Do you want us to go?" he asked.

_No, not yet._

"Okay."

"Hey, um," Alex began, reaching out of Ray's line of vision. "We brought someone to see you."

_Who?_

Bleary brown eyes cast about the room but there was no one else there besides his two friends. A gentle brushing of soft fabric against the scruff of his cheek made him start. He guessed it a moment before the fuzzy green face of a familiar amphibian popped up into view.

_Kermit!_ The smile was brief and grisly, revealing broken teeth held together with wire and plastic, but the joy behind it pleasant enough. The elation faded to amusement as Alex balanced the stuffed toy on Ray's chest where he could see it. Kermit, it seemed, had had some misadventures of his own. In an attempt to mimic his own injuries the boys had wound bandages around the flimsy felt arms and legs and had dressed the little frog in a doll-sized hospital tunic. A wide bandage of cotton had been wound around its throat and an over-sized Band-Aid covered the back of its head. Ray's inner chuckle was obvious, even without the perfunctory "heh" printed on the monitor.

_Thanks guys_.

"No problem," Alex smiled in return, tucking the toy against Ray's cheek where he could feel it. "He's actually been here since your first night, but poor Kermit's been feeling kinda crappy too. We thought you both deserved the rest."

A soft knock on the door was followed by a matronly woman in a white uniform. "I'm sorry gentlemen, but Mr. Kalahearn needs his rest."

"Oops, drug time," Charles grinned.

"No problem, Margie," Alex assented. After three months, all of them were on a first-name basis with the nursing staff.

"We'll see you tomorrow, man," Charles promised, stooping long enough to briefly kiss Ray's forehead.

"Yeah, see you then," Alex told him, copying the gesture. Ray said nothing. The medication having dampened his pain, he had gladly succumbed to exhaustion and was already asleep, Kermit tucked in beside him.


	9. Chapter 9

December 01, 1977

"_Hi guys._"

"What on earth is _that_?" Senator Kalahearn demanded, pointing at the little monitor Dr. Xerxes was still fiddling with.

"A little something to monitor your son's brain activity," the tall doctor replied, his British accent making his words crisp and business-like. "It was originally to keep track of any visions he may have had while he was asleep, but now that he's awake and unable to speak due to an excessive amount of plastic and wiring, I though this might be a bit more suitable."

"_Pretty cool, huh?_" The little green letters scrolled past on the black screen as Ray gave a small smile. His expression faded, however, at the sight of his parent's faces.

"Sir," the Senator began, his countenance matching the stoniness in his voice, "unhook that contraption from my son. I will not have you putting words in his mouth."

"_WTF Dad?!_"

Fortunately neither of his parents were fluent in net-speak.

"Senator, I am trying to restore a means of communication to your son," Dr. Xerxes began, but was interrupted.

"I do not want anyone making decisions for my son. We're his parents; we will be the judge of what is best."

"_…_"

Things did not improve from there.

Although Xerxes' teleprompter was more than reliable as far as translating thought into words, Ray's parents refused to dignify it as such. Therefore, conversations with them were needlessly difficult and extremely tedious, their inquiries limited to those that could be given a "yes" or "no" response. Dr. Karl believed Ray was mentally competent to make his own decisions, but that didn't stop the Kalahearn's for making a good deal of those decisions for him. Because Ray had not cited any power of attorney, his parents automatically ceded any authority he might have had.

Visitors were turned away, cards and gifts returned unopened. Dr. Karl was nearly ousted from his position as Ray's physician, though Dr. Xerxes saved them the trouble and cordially showed himself out before the Senator had a chance to defame him. Dr. Xerxes didn't believe in dealing with the "small-minded", as he put it. Ray was beginning to feel the same way. It nearly came to blows when the guys tried to visit while his parents were still in the room. To be fair, it had started out civil enough, but things had soon escalated and it had taken five orderlies- two for his father and three for Alex- to break up the aborted fist-fight. Ray couldn't be sure who had "started" it, but it didn't matter. After that, the guys were banned- at his father's demand- from the hospital grounds unless they were in need of treatment themselves. Ray had to smile every time one of them sneaked in after visiting hours with a black eye or a dislocated finger or some other minor injury that would have ordinarily been treated at home. However, his parents soon found out about that and put a stop to it as well. When Misty tried to visit, his mother had nearly fainted. The episode ended with Misty stalking out the door in tears, and a two-hour lecture on the virtues of marrying within the church as well as the mandate of chastity until marriage. Limited to grunts and groans, Ray had no way of telling his scandalized parents that he had barely held hands with Misty let alone anything more serious. Even if he had been able to enlighten them, it was unlikely, he reflected, that he would be believed.

No guests, no phone calls, no email, no letters, no nothing. Unless it came from east of the Rockies, nothing made it into Ray's room. Thus cut off from the only family he'd had for the last ten years, the family he'd left behind began to wear him down. If he hadn't been playing vigilante, none of this would have happened. It was all the fault of those no-good friends of his, deluding him like this. A poor, sick child, that's what he was, he needed help, needed his family to take care of him. He'd be all alone out here, no one to help him, to look out for him. He'd only be a burden, would impoverish himself with no way to work and so many medical bills. He hadn't had a vision for ages, perhaps he'd out-grown it; perhaps the unclean spirit had left him through his near-death experience. It was a second chance, a gift from God, an opportunity to start over and do things right. He owed it to his family to come home. His sisters and grandparents had been worried sick, not to mention all his old friends. He wasn't going to fight crime any more; he couldn't possibly, why he'd be lucky if he could ever learn to walk again. There was nothing for him out here, it would be better to come home. They were simply aching to have him safe with his family again.

It was hard to bear up against their continual, relentless talking. It wasn't persuading so much as brow-beating, though they did it with kind words and a gentle tone that left him practically in tears. What worried him most was the one thing they might possibly be right about; the possibility that his powers might really be gone. He hadn't had a vision or even a terribly significant dream since the accident. The psychiatrist Dr. Mina had assured him that it was far too early to tell if he had truly burnt-out. As badly damaged as he had been, he was still recovering physically and could not expect his abilities to manifest until his body was done pulling itself back together. The knowledge gave him some comfort, but he couldn't shake the nagging worry that he might be _normal_ again. Without his powers, what was he but just another human being? He'd be of no use or interest to anybody, certainly not anyone out here. How could he stand being the only one in the house left to stay home while the others went out to save the day? How would Misty feel about him now?

He never got to ask her. Although his teeth had resettled in their sockets and his jaw was mobile again, Ray didn't get to say much in his defense. Dr. Karl counseled against his making the trip back East. No one was sure how well the Rainbow would react to the pressure changes of a cross-country flight, and Ray's morale had taken an appalling nose-dive.

Two weeks later, movement shaky at best, still unable to stand or walk on his own, propped stiffly in a wheelchair, plastic protruding from his neck, jaw still wired shut, IV tube yet dangling from his arm, Ray was bundled into the huge navy blue sedan. His other belongings already on their way via US mail, he and his parents would be making the nine hour flight back to what Ray had come to think of as the "forbidden city". Charles and Alex said nothing, did not even attend the final send-off. Instead, they came earlier with Misty, Dylan and Seth to say their goodbyes early. A careful hug from each, a gentle scruff of his hair, and a hesitant kiss on the cheek from Misty was all he got to remember them by. His only consolation was that Dr. Karl had promised to meet him at the rehab facility back East. One familiar face, at least, would be there waiting for him.

"I'm glad you're coming home, dear." Mrs. Kalahearn began, as his father wheeled him up the aisle.

"Mm," Ray responded, not bothering to open his mouth.

"We've missed you terribly."

In their way, they probably had.

"It will be so nice to have you home again."

He hoped so, anyway.

"Eddy's missed you terribly, Rowdy too."

He _had_ missed Eddy. It would be good to see his old best friend and the rambunctious Jack Russell Terrier again.

"Your sisters and grandparents will be glad to see you as well. Oh Reuben, we missed you so much!"

Okay, no. Of all the things he was going back to, 'Reuben' was not one of them.

"Mom, please don't call me that anymore," he told her somewhat thickly around his clenched jaws. "My name is 'Ray'."


	10. Chapter 10

December 28, 1977

Nine hours across country only to be taken from one hospital to another. Mercifully, Dr. Karl was there waiting for him. The East had become an alien world to him, and Ray was glad to see a more familiar face. When had his family become strangers? In the back of his mind, Ray wondered how his father would justify the return of his prodigal son? He would probably explain his injuries away as the result of an accident of some sort; have him blacklisted as not only mentally but also physically incompetent. It didn't matter anymore, anyway.

Now that he was back where his parents could keep a more immediate eye on him, they didn't spend as much time at the hospital. While Ray was glad to finally have some peace, he felt alone in a way he hadn't out West. No one here knew him. There would be no cards or phone calls, no visits with friends from church or work or anywhere else. He didn't say anything about the dosage of pain medication putting him to sleep far more quickly than it should have. In the back of his mind, Ray was content to sleep away any time not spent trying to get his synapses back in gear. If he wasn't awake, he didn't have to deal with the emotional trauma still lurking in the background.

"Mommy?" her daughter spoke up. "Who is that?"

"That's your uncle, Sophie."

"The one nobody will talk about?"

"Yes, honey. That's your Uncle Ray."

"What happened to him?"

"He got hurt."

"How?"

Leah truly wished she had an answer. "I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know."

Her attention suddenly snapped upward as an indistinct groan drifted from the bed. Breath caught, she dared not say anything. She hadn't meant to wake him. Ray's face contorted briefly as he fought for consciousness, dark eyes blinking deliberately before coming to rest on her.

"...Leah?" The word was dry and cracked, spoken with brows knit in confusion. With his eyes he glanced dubiously at the IV bag dangling above his head, evidently wondering if he was hallucinating.

"No, it's really me," she assured him. "I heard what happened. I had to see if you were really all right."

His closed-lipped smile spread into a grin, the sight spoiled by the mesh of wires holding his teeth and jaws in place. Blinking rapidly, he appeared to be fighting tears, but after a couple of steady breaths managed to gain control of himself.

"Good to see ya, Sis," he told her, words remarkably distinct as only veterans of years of childhood orthodontia could pronounce them.

"How are you," she pressed. "Are you feeling all right? Are you being well cared for?"

"I can't feel a thing," he chuckled. "They've got me on some pretty strong stuff. Don't worry; they're taking real good care of me."

"Ray, what happened?"

"About three brick walls and an I-beam."

Her boggled expression was understandable, Ray felt.

"There was a terrorist incident downtown. I got caught in the middle of it. Had half a building come down on me. The doctors say I'll be all right, though." It wasn't a lie, not really, but even Leah, whose job as a child had been to watch out for him when he had what his family assumed to be an epileptic seizure, could not be told the whole truth. She nodded slowly, suspecting, but saying nothing.

"Who's this?" he asked, glancing at the little girl clinging to her mother's skirt and staring at him in morbid fascination.

"This's Sophie, my oldest."

The light seemed to drain from his face at this. "Your oldest..." he repeated. "Leah, I..." His voice caught. He had received an announcement, but no invitation to her wedding, had not been notified when any of her three children had been born. All contact had been almost completely cut off and he had had no way to know what had transpired in the last ten years.

"It's okay, I know," she told him gently, feeling tears prick behind her own eyes. "It wasn't your fault. I know you would have come if you could."

Unable to nod, he closed his eyes in assent, sighing heavily, comforted that she understood. She let him rest a moment, process the information and gather his thoughts. He knew she'd married, though her husband's name was eluding him. They'd had cute kids at any rate, if Sophie was any indication. She looked as if she might have been six or seven, but that could have been the petite Kalahearn genes. There was a lot of Leah in her, but here and there she showed touches of another blood line- blue eyes, curly hair, skin a shade or two darker than her mother's. Until now she'd been staring at him quietly, half-hidden behind her mother's legs. The curiosity was still there, though the fear seemed to have left her.

"You were more handsome in my dream," she told him with the frankness only small children and octogenarians seemed to possess. Ray blinked at this, somewhat taken aback, but couldn't help a smile.

"Sophie..." Leah admonished gently, her brow creasing briefly in what could have been either embarrassment or concern.

"But you said— "

"Not now, honey. Later."

And then it clicked. Strain as he might, that sixth sense was long gone, and any extra unseen marker Sophie might have was invisible to him. However, the mother and daughter exchange had been enough, and even if he'd manage to miss the significance of Sophie's careless remark, the fear and pleading in Leah's eyes told him all he needed to know.

She'd kept him safe while they were growing up; now it was his turn to return the favor.


	11. Chapter 11

February 2, 1978

Ray did as he was told, tried his hardest at rehab sessions, but it was slow work, something impossible to rush. Even with the knowledge that everyone was counting on him, that a second sudden disappearance would look bad, that the rest of his undeserving extended family would be disgraced, there were days when he thought about reaching around, grabbing the multi-colored plastic jug handle protruding from his neck, and yanking it out. They had learned to live without him once, they could do so again.

"Is it wrong?" he asked.

"Is what wrong," Dr. Karl returned, adjusting his thick glasses.

"To be, well, upset like this. I should be happy I'm still alive, that I'm not completely helpless, that I can still move to some degree, that my family took me back. I'll be taken care of by the NSA and by people that love me... So why do I feel so miserable?"

"Your body is still recovering," Dr. Karl soothed. "It will take time for it to balance itself out again."

Ray stiffly shook his head. "No, I mean..." A pause as he swallowed hard, steeling himself against words not yet said. "I mean... I'm not Super anymore. I'm normal. Just like everyone else. There is nothing special or interesting about me now. There may never be again. As much trouble as my powers gave me...I never wanted them gone..."

Another long pause.

"Is that selfish?"

There was silence for the space of a few minutes while Dr. Straussen contemplated his answer.

"I think it is perfectly natural for you to feel disappointed. You had control of your powers for a short time. All of us were only just beginning to understand them. You are the oldest Clairvoyant on record, Raymond, and that is something to be proud of." He offered the boy a smile and Ray did his best to return it.

"No," Dr. Karl went on, "I do not think it is selfish to miss your abilities. Many of my non-super patients feel the same way when I tell them they must stop playing football or eating cheeseburgers. They feel as if their one joy in life has been stolen away from them, yet they know they must give it up if they want to live. You know in your head that you have a good life waiting for you. It will be difficult to fill the time you once devoted to do-gooding, but there are other ways to satisfy your desire to help. Volunteer, give of your time; it isn't glamorous, but average men and women can help one another just as much as a man in a mask and tights. Pray, be patient, give yourself some time. Your calling and your path to it will become clear. For now, just concentrate on getting better, _ja_?"

"Yeah."

It had been such a long time since anyone had talked behind his back, especially within hearing range. He wasn't asleep, though the drug fog of pain killer had left him pleasantly groggy. Still, it didn't make the not-quite-hushed voices in the hallway any less audible. The words "depression", "trauma", and "therapy" were tossed about by various speakers. Lying silently, eyes only half-open, he tried to pick out who was saying what? Someone was sniffling, he could almost smell the old-fashioned perfume as a stiffly starched handkerchief was rearranged to dab gently at a nose. His mother. What on earth did she have to be crying about? A gruff husking of a voice not quite low enough to manage an honest growl entered the conversation. Short, clipped sentences punctuated by stony silence indicated it was his father. Always giving orders. A softer, more fluid voice countered the Senator's staccato grumblings, the slant of the words belying more comfort in a language not English. That had to be Dr. Karl.

The voices were still too low and too distant to make out the finer details of the conversation, but "friends" and "visitors" uttered in a thick accent found their way to his ears. "Rest" and "peace" from his father, "best interest" from his mother… Something about "morale" and "recovery" in a deadly serious tone from Dr. Karl that made even the sniffling stop short. Ray would have liked to try and eavesdrop a bit more, but the fog was growing thicker and it wasn't long before he became lost in it completely.

Although he'd gleaned little more than hints from the previous day's conversation, it wasn't much of a surprise when Dr. Karl announced that a new therapist had been added to the small legion of specialists attempting to get Ray in working condition again. It was, however, a bit of a shock to discover that said therapist had a very familiar face.

"…Eddy?"

The last time he'd seen Eddy had been in high school. One of very few allies and fewer friends he'd had growing up, Eddy had been at his side much the way Leah had. It had been ages, but despite being a bit taller, a bit less of a fashion disaster- as they both had once been- Eddy looked much as he had when they were both eighteen.

"Hey, Ray," Eddy smiled, reaching and taking one of Ray's lifeless hands to shake. Expecting to feel nothing, Ray started slightly as warmth radiated from Eddy's palm into his own hand and up his arm. It reminded him of dunking frost-bitten fingers in warm dishwater after an afternoon out in the snow, and sent a warm shiver down his spine. Ray couldn't help the small moan of relief that escaped as the warmth continued to climb up his arm and spread into his chest. Dr. Karl, standing and watching, just smiled.

"Better?" Eddy asked, both big hands still clasped around Ray's.

"Yeah…" The word was panted, breathless, as if he'd just come inside after being out in a biting wind. "I never…" He didn't dare finish the sentence. Not here, not in enemy territory. How he had missed the fact that Eddy was a Member too, he didn't know, but it was damn good to know that one other person knew. Knew, and had survived successfully.

"Well, you know how my folks always wanted me to go into medicine," Eddy replied, purposely leading the conversation into the mundane. "Therapy's a little less hazardous than surgery, and I feel like I'm doing more good as a personal trainer than I would slicing and dicing in an operating room."

Eddy's parents and Ray's had been close colleagues even before their respective sons had been born. A burgeoning heart surgeon and a promising statesman both attending the same small church, it was only natural that their families should become friends. Evidently, Eddy had been able to keep his secret better than Ray had managed, but his parent's weren't entirely pleased with his choice of vocation either. Calling sometimes tended to supersede all else. It could be annoying and inconvenient, but there was no way to ignore it. Supers hadn't truly been banned, just driven underground. Thank God Eddy had found a constructive outlet for his own gift. One more ally, one more friend, at least one more person he could really trust.


	12. Chapter 12

March 15, 1978

Even through the fuzz of pain medication, of antibiotics, of chemicals that kept him in a perpetual state of half-dozing, he couldn't ignore it all. People he'd known growing up, people who'd known him as a child, all people he didn't know anymore coming and shaking his father's hand, patting his mother's shoulder, talking to him as if he were either deaf or two years old. If he heard one more person tell him it was the hand of God that had spared his life he was going to scream. Loudly. Hand of God or not, Ray wasn't sure he deserved this. He didn't even try to respond.

Here he was, the prodigal son, returned home and to his homeland, albeit not of his own free will. Unable to do much more that move his jaw and eyes, he could only sit strapped into the elephantine wheelchair of hospital gray and try to pretend he was hallucinating. The whole situation so surreal, it was easier to convince himself that it was all a bad dream than he might have thought. If not for Eddy casting him sympathetic glances from across the aisle, he might have been able to forget it entirely.

The service itself was familiar and inoffensive. It had been a long time since he'd heard the old pipe organ and he let himself drift on the sweetly familiar tunes. Mercifully, his mother didn't prod him for not singing along. He didn't see why they had to drag him out of the hospital just for this. Granted Pastor Goodwin, head of Encouragement and Visitation, had come to see him often enough, but the hospital chapel was rather painfully non-denominational. Ray would have been perfectly happy with a radio sermon, but apparently he was needed for this guest appearance.

"We'd like to welcome back a member of our congregation," Pastor Simms was saying from the pulpit. "The youngest child of the Kalahearn family. Senator, would you care to bring your son forward?"

Oh no.

He cast a frantic glance at Eddy who could only give him a bewildered, sympathetic shrug. There was nothing he could do but try to help his friend and patient face this unintended public humiliation. Rising, he took the handles from Senator Kalahearn and reluctantly pushed Ray toward the altar.

"Senator, Mrs. Kalahearn, Dr. McPherson, Reuben," Pastor Simms nodded at each of them in turn. With Ray unable to move, Eddy did the cringing for both of them.

"We thank the Lord that your son is here with us again. Praise be to Jesus, Son of the Almighty that Reuben's life was spared. His body may be broken, but his spirit is alive, and well, and intact, and ready to meet our Savior without fear of Judgment, am I right?"

The congregation responded with loud "Amen's" and applause. Ray could almost feel himself shrinking within the gargantuan wheelchair.

"With your permission, Brother Senator?" Pastor Simms asked, laying a hand on each of Ray's shoulders. Ray eyed those hands warily. The last time Pastor Simms had laid hands on him, was years ago, and the results had fallen rather short of what the church elders had hoped for. Then again, exorcism was Catholic territory and they were all a lot of extra-stodgy Protestants. Ray was fairly certain Dan could have listed a hundred things they'd done wrong- starting with choosing a subject that was _not_, in fact, possessed. All that, however, was long in the past and Ray had to scramble to refocus on the pastor as he lowered his head and raised his voice.

"O Father God, how we praise You and thank You for returning this lost son to us."

Ray closed his eyes with the rest of the congregation, more out of mortification than humility. This was beyond embarrassing, this was…this was…

"We bow before Your awesome power that has saved this boy from the evils of this world, from the schemes and designs of godless men, from the teeth of Satan the roaring lion!"

...pushing "cheesy". Pastor Simms had an unfortunate habit of waxing poetic when it came to spoken prayer. The man has missed his calling; he should have been a Shakespearean actor.

"We thank you Lord, and we worship You for raising up this young man from the miry clay! For setting his feet- his spiritual feet- upon the rock that is Your salvation! We know that his sins have been forgiven and that his guilt has been washed away by Your precious blood!"

Ray could almost feel himself shrinking, the weight of guilt and embarrassment compressing him smaller and smaller inside his own body. Behind him, his mother burst into tears and wails of "Thank you, Jesus!", his father echoing gravely "Amen!" at every exclamation. If he could have hung his head in shame, Ray would have done so. As it was, he could only close his eyes and add his own prayer: that it would end soon. Eyes scrunched closed, he didn't notice Eddy placing a sympathetic hand on his arm.

"Brothers and sisters join me! Join me in praising our Lord God, the Great Physician! Lay hands on this young brother that we may give thanks for his spared life! Come forward brothers and sisters and pray with me!"

If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn he felt Eddy's hand tighten around his bicep, a thin thread of panic skittering down from his nerves into his own. Apprehension mounted as the congregation left their seats at the impromptu altar call and gathered around him, each clawing for a space on which to lay their hands. Heavy, sweaty palms and perfumed gloves piled on his head; fingers with wedding bands and heavy calluses weighed down his shoulders, more locked his arms in place, and yet more held down legs that could not have been lifted even if he'd wanted. And he wanted. He _really_ wanted; to run, to scream, to do something, _anything_ that would get these people off of him. A strangled sob caught in his throat before he could swallow it completely, it was all he could manage in the way of protest. He didn't want their blessings or their pity and he certainly didn't want them pawing him regardless of whether he could feel it or not. Those unfamiliar with his current stage of recovery assumed he was either unable to articulate himself any further than verbal noise, or that his damaged jaw limited his ability to speak words, and so provided the "Hallelujah's" for him.

Eddy had a death-grip on him with both hands, as if trying to pull him out from under the crowd of well-meaning, over-zealous saints. Ray barely noticed, an unpleasant pins-and-needles feeling had begun in his stomach and was bubbling its way up his chest and into his throat. Half afraid he was going to vomit, the cold, creeping sensation passed his mouth and nose and eyes and ascended straight up toward his brain. For the briefest moment, everything stopped. The people, the voices, the wailing of prayers and the weight of hands all vanished into calm, white silence. And then, that vanished too.

* * *

Even without his glasses, the white walls and fluorescent lighting triggered panic in the pit of his stomach. His heart paused in its ascent into this throat as a hand was laid on his head.

"It's all right, you passed out. It's only been a couple of hours. If you want, I can pull some strings and send you home tonight."

Eddy. Oh thank God. Sighing, Ray let himself relax.

"What happened?" he mumbled around jaws locked with bridgework.

"Pastor Simms asked everyone to come forward and bless you. Guess it was too much at once. About five minutes into it you fainted- so did your mom." Eddy's fuzzy smile had a perversely amused slant to it, prompting Ray to go ahead and chuckle to himself at the mental image of his mother dramatically collapsing in the middle of the church. Slain by the Spirit. The irony was just too wickedly delicious.

"That shouldn't be funny, and yet it is…"

"I know," Eddy smirked. A pause as Ray closed his eyes and simply drifted, content to rest. Eddy, however, knit his brow and rested his chin on one hand, brain rapidly flipping through possibilities faster than a Las Vegas black jack dealer.

Replayed in his mind, boiled down to emotion and sensation, the sudden psychic tide for well-wishing had nearly been too much for him, so it was small wonder Ray had fainted. Like an emotional tsunami the energy had reared and crashed over their heads, half-suffocating Eddy and drowning Ray completely. It had been all he could do to surface himself. Ray's fainting had actually been a good thing. Had he not fallen unconscious, Eddy couldn't imagine how he would have salvaged the situation. However, why it had affected Ray at all, he could not fathom. As a Burnout, he should not be aware of such things, and even if he was, his sensitivity would be almost nil. Why then had he fainted? It made no sense. Perhaps it _would_ be better to keep him overnight? Eddy didn't think he'd have to negotiate very hard for assent.

"Do you want to go home?"

"Not really."

"Didn't think so."


	13. Chapter 13

June 15, 1978

He didn't remember his room being this small, though that could have been because of all the random junk crammed into it. Apparently, the little space had become a catch-all for odd pieces of furniture and unfinished projects, and his parents hadn't gotten around to clearing it out. His mother's quilting frame with a half-finished wall-hanging still in it had been shoved into a corner. The desk that had once supported his computer was neatly littered with papers and stacked with books; none of which belonged to him. Boxes of fabric and other incomplete sewing projects had been shoved under the little twin bed. None of his old posters or pictures remained. The curtains had been changed, so too had the bedspread. Instead of the old red-and-white quilt, a fussy chenille spread and stout, frilly pillows had usurped his bed and dainty white lace drapes hung at the window. What with the quilt frame and chair that went with it, the folded futon, three rolled-up sleeping bags, and an end-table that Ray remembered being in the living room, there was little room to navigate. He would have had a difficult time picking his way around all the extraneous junk even without the crutches.

Although the space was his, he made no attempt to change it other than to remove some of the clutter. The quilting frame and chair were moved down to the parlor, the sleeping bags and futon to the basement. Despite his personal belongings arriving in one piece, all but his clothing and other necessities were taken straight down to the basement unopened. Somehow, it didn't matter. Unpacking and reclaiming his old room seemed too daunting a task. He didn't bother about the lace curtains or puffy little pillows. For all intents and purposes, this was the guest room, and he didn't intend on staying.

"You're not staying?" Eddy asked, watching carefully as Ray crunched along over the gravel beside him. There were too many ears and eyes at the hospital, and even more lurked in their respective homes. A walk was good exercise and a chance to make sure the new internal Rainbow was working alright, as well as a convenient excuse to get away from the public at large.

"No. Not with my folks anyway," he grunted, determinedly stomping along one foot in front of the other. It was slow going with the crutches, but even his meager pride had limits. "They're driving me crazy, and I think they'd forgotten how annoying I can be as well."

"I know I missed your witty remarks."

"Ha ha."

"Seriously, I know how you feel. If I didn't have so many loans to pay off, I'd be on my own too. At least your dad isn't in the same hospital breathing down your lab coat all the time."

"Touché," Ray returned, pausing briefly to catch his breath.

"So…where you going?"

"Leah's."

"Your sister's? Isn't her husband that psycho who--?"

"Nearly ripped my soul out when I was fifteen? Yeah. That's him. God knows what Leah sees in him."

Eddy boggled for a moment, standing in place while Ray headed down the path once more. "I'm a believer in 'forgive and forget'," he huffed, briefly jogging to catch up, "but I can't say I'd trust Reverend Derrick Langland any farther than I could throw him. His theology is sound enough, but it would do him a world of good to heed his own advice once in a while."

"Agreed, but if I'm there, it'll make things easier on Leah."

"He's not…?"

Ray shook his head at Eddy's raised eyebrows. "She's never said anything. Aside from being a narcissistic ass, he treats her well enough. He's got the same problem as my folks. He means well but…"

"…he doesn't Get It." Eddy finished grimly.

"Exactly."

"So…if you're not going for Leah, why are you going? Aside from the obvious environmental concerns."

"Sophie."

Silence.

"…you're kidding."

"Nope."

"And she's…?"

"Got the same thing I had."

"_Damn_…" Eddy wasn't one to swear. Ever. Despite this, the four letters did not begin to convey the sudden icy pressure in his heart. The experience might not have been his personally, but he had witnessed it first hand. What Ray had gone through, no one deserved.

"That's why she wants me there. I may be out of the game, but that doesn't mean I don't still know the rules. If I can find ways to help Sophie _now_ she can avoid all the angst I went through. She can learn to deal with it, to hide it. She won't have to suffer alone."

"Hopefully, she won't have to suffer at all."


	14. Chapter 14

August 22, 1978

"So was I really more handsome in your dream?" Ray's smile was teasing, and his niece returned it, looking up at him as he trudged along beside her.

"Yeah. You looked more like you do now. Only you didn't have those." She pointed to the shiny chrome and black plastic crutches encircling his lower arms.

"What did I have?"

Sophie knit her little brow in thought for a moment, pulling the memory to the front of her brain.

"You didn't have anything. You had on a red and black shirt, and black pants...it kinda looked like the guys on that old space show..."

His super suit. He'd often heard the uniform likened to those of the engineering staff in the classic "Star Trek" episodes. Interesting.

"Was I doing anything?"

"Not really. You just bent down and held my hand and I knew you were going to teach me stuff. But it wasn't like...help with my homework or anything."

Ray couldn't help smiling. "Well, no, probably not. But I think I can help you with your dreams if you want."

Sophie's eyes grew wide. "Really?"

"Really."

"Will it be a secret?" she asked, oddly serious.

"I'm afraid so."

"Good," was her emphatic reply. "I don't want anybody to know. I want it to be our secret, to be _my_ secret."

It was strange how even as children, young supers figured out very quickly to keep their abilities to themselves. Perhaps it was a natural instinct in any human, or maybe it was unique to his and Sophie's extraneous genes; either way, if she wanted to protect her mystery, it made his job that much easier. Leah already knew, obviously, but Derrick was still in denial, which was probably just as well. He was one of those people who wanted to be in charge of everything, and really had no business heading up a community yard sale much less a church congregation. Even if he had been supportive of Sophie's gift- which he wasn't- Derrick would have wanted to take over her training himself, and that would be like attempting neurosurgery without attending either college or medical school. Because of this, Ray had opted to take his young protegee outside and away from the house. There was a neighborhood park and playground within walking distance and so, beginning to truly feel the pain of disused muscle and unhealed injury, he stumbled the last few steps of the five blocks before clumsily collapsing on a bench.

"You okay, Uncle Ray?" Sophie asked, leaning her hands on his leg and looking into his face.

"Peachy," Ray panted, more from discomfort than exhaustion. "Gimme a minute."

Sophie obligingly granted the requested minute, standing next to him patiently while he caught his breath. Once he had recovered, she climbed up onto the bench and sat beside him, her sneakers dangling a good ten inches clear of the grass.

"So what are you going to teach me?"

A good question. It wasn't "what", so much as "how". He had no doubt he could coach Sophie in managing her abilities- if he'd still had his own. However, without any powers, he was going to have to try to do this remotely, and a method had yet to present itself. Even Joe, while not a Clairvoyant, had been one of the most powerful Telepaths alive and had been able to communicate thought-to-thought when words were insufficient. Such a luxury would not be available with Sophie. Well, they were going to have to start small regardless. Getting an idea of what she was experiencing would probably be the best place to start.

"When do you usually have these dreams?" he asked.

"Um..." she thought for a moment. "Mostly at night. Sometimes they happen while I'm daydreaming, but they aren't like daydreams or night dreams. They're...different."

Ray nodded, remembering a similar phenomenon twenty-one years ago. "And you can tell them apart from regular dreams."

"Oh yeah," she nodded, her tone indicating that the distinction would be virtually impossible to miss. "They're way different."

"Okay, what are they usually about?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. All different things. Most of them are just...I dunno. Stuff."

Little things then, inconsequential daily nuances like lost keys and missing pets. At least she hadn't seen anything really traumatizing yet. However, as she grew older, her radar would widen, and a lot more unbidden images of anything and everything would find their way into her mind. With any luck, he could teach her to sift and select what went in and out of her head before she had a chance to give herself any accidental scars.

"Can you have the dreams any time you want?"

"No, they just kinda happen."

"Alright, well, I guess what we want to work on first is having dreams without zoning out. Then we'll work on learning to identify what you're looking at; events, places, what kind of importance it may have. It sounds like you're just seeing minor things right now, but eventually that will change."

She nodded gravely and took his hand. "Yes, sir."

Repressing a chuckle at her seriousness, Ray squeezed her hand in return. "Well, sit back and close your eyes for me. Do you feel different when you have the dreams?"

"Kinda."

"Can you try and feel like that?"

"Okay..."

Leaning back against the bench, she closed her eyes and relaxed, drifting back into a state of semi-consciousness. Still holding her hand, Ray could feel her step back into mental neutrality.

_Good_, he told her, not bothering- or noticing- to use auditory words. _There's usually a place where the dreams come in. Can you tell where it is?_

Already he had spotted it; a bubbling trickle like the babble of the little brook that ran through the park was evident behind her. It always seemed to be behind one; Ray could never figure out why. His own separate stream of consciousness had begun like this, but had quickly swelled to a roar that rivaled Niagara Falls. Mentally, Sophie turned around, trying to zero in on the little wash of images and feelings running through the back of her mind.

_There!_ she cried, hurrying to scamper over to it, but Ray held her back.

_Hold it, Sunshine, you don't want to go wading in there just yet. Remember what your mom said about strange water?_ Granted she wasn't really swimming, but even knee-deep depths could have strong currents, and he didn't want her getting swept where he couldn't rescue her.

_Never dive in. Always check for the bottom. Never without a grownup._

_Right. Now, let's just go over and take a look._

The human mind had the tendency to filter the unknown through terms they were familiar with and would enable them to understand something otherwise incomprehensible. Sophie's metaphor of choice seemed to be water. The tiny tide of images appeared like a vibrant brook of colors and sound, rippling over unseen pebbles between mossy banks. It was a good analogy; much better than the monstrous freight train that had always seemed to be careening past in his own head.

_Wow..._ It was more emotion than an actual word, as she leaned and watched the narrow tide of images rushing past. The flow might not have been wide or deep, but it was going by at a good clip. Her wary gratitude at being restrained was evident as she edged toward him more closely.

_It's okay. Now you know where it is. You think you can find it again?_

_Sure!_

However, the mental game of Blindman's Bluff proved more difficult than Sophie had originally guessed. Rather than being told to simply look away and look back, Ray roused her to the waking world once more before having her sink back to a neutral state and then mentally spinning her around a few times for good measure. Only after she could pick out the stream to his satisfaction did they move on.

_Good, you know what to look for. Now you need to learn how to get the dreams to come when you want, and to stay away when you don't. I had a lot of trouble with that at first, but it's actually not as hard as I thought it would be._

He could sense her nod as she remained quiet, awaiting instruction.

_The thing about the dreams is that they don't stop and start, they just keep going past like water in a stream. Sometimes some dreams are more important than others, and so they overflow their banks and into your attention. It's kind of like having the radio on in the background, and ignoring it until you hear your favorite song come on. The idea is to keep a loose eye on the stream all the time, to split your attention if you can when that important dream comes, or to hold onto it in a little reservoir until you're ready to look at it closely._

As he spoke, a small channel snaked to one side, cutting through the moss of Sophie's imagined riverbank and forming a small pool at the far end. The newly-formed reservoir was little more than a duck puddle, but it would work well enough for her at present.

_Good. What I want you to practice, is looking at the stream a couple times but without zoning out. Think you can do that?_

She did, but again, it took a couple tries before she got it right. By that time, the sun was sinking into the trees and it was time to return home. Already the enticing aroma of meatloaf, stuffed chicken breasts, and the contents of other suburban cook pots was wafting in the early evening air. He hadn't realized they'd been out this long. Sophie seemed happily sedate, as if she'd spent the afternoon daring the heights of the jungle gym instead of plumbing her psychic depths. Still, a mental workout could be just as exhausting as physical exercise and the walk home seemed doubly long to Ray. He nearly fell asleep at the dinner table twice, prompting a lecture from Derrick about overtaxing himself and how Ray might prevent this sort of wanton self-abuse by watching competitive sports on television. Ray ignored him, the task all the easier for being more than half-asleep. Sophie had done good work today, and he collapsed into bed proud of her first small accomplishments.


	15. Chapter 15

March 16, 1979

"I think he spends too much time with her."

Leah mentally rolled her eyes. Derrick, god bless him, was her husband and so there were certain quirks and oddities one simply had to put up with. However, as Ray's recovery progressed, Derrick's attitude seemed to degenerate. Although he had made no challenge to Derrick's domestic authority, his mere presence in the house seemed to have become an irritant.

"Oh for heaven sake Derrick, the girls didn't even know they _had_ an uncle until a few months ago. It's only natural that they be fascinated by him. Besides, they've been good for him."

Derrick grumbled something uncomplimentary that Leah didn't bother straining to decipher.

"He's not her father," he grumped more loudly.

"He isn't trying to be," Leah responded in a sigh. This particular conversation had been rehashed a few too many times for her taste. Derrick seemed to think that if he harangued about it enough, things would change. She had been forced to abandon her brother once, she wasn't going to do so again.

"He's too touchy-feely with them," Derrick pressed. "I never could stand those sappy types."

"Derrick, the girls are eight, five, and three. It's not a crime if they want to sit on his lap. Heck, I'm glad he's healthy enough to _let_ them."

Derrick gave her an extremely disgusted look bordering on revulsion.

"You're _glad_?"

It took her a minute.

"Wait, _WHAT?!_"

"Oh come on Leah, you know what freaks like him are capable of! God knows what he was doing out there in a house full of other men all wearing tights!"

The description was so ridiculous that the sudden flare of anger fizzled into snorts of hysterical laughter. Derrick, however, was somewhat less than amused.

"You think this is funny?" He glared and crossed his arms, his expression more an insulted pout than actual anger.

"Yes, actually, I do," she told him, giving her best condescending Darling Dearest smile. "The idea of Ray as a pervert, much less a child molester is absolutely ludicrous." Derrick might pretend social delicateness, but Leah had no qualms with stating the truth despite the ugly terminology. "You can call and check with the Risen Son Presbyterian Church- PCA," she added for affect. "They had nothing but good things to say about him. I know. Mom checked."

The PCA remark left Derrick rather deflated, and Leah continued before he could get a chance to refill his sails with righteous indignation.

"I'm surprised at you Derrick Langland, threatened by your skinny, scrawny, _crippled_ brother-in-law because he makes a better babysitter than you do." There were few points more vulnerable than Derrick's masculine pride. When she put it that way, it was difficult to find a retort that didn't make him sound like a pig-headed fool. It took several minutes of sulky silence for Derrick to make one final, sullen attempt at getting the last word.

"I still think he spends too much time with them."

"It's been ten years, Derrick. Let him make up for lost time."

There was nothing he could say to that, and Leah smugly accepted his sword of grudging silence.


	16. Chapter 16

April 22, 1979

The ever increasing volume broke him out of his reverie. Putting his book aside, Ray headed into the hallway to see if things were really as bad as they sounded.

They were.

The girls were peeking wide-eyed over the banister, little Sophie crouching at the top of the stairs as if she couldn't decide whether she ought to venture down or not.

"What's going on," he asked as the angry shouts from the kitchen grew louder.

"They're fighting again," Sophie whispered, her voice choked. "I knew this would happen. I had a bad dream. Daddy's going to leave and it's all my fault…"

While he had his suspicions about both Derrick's motives and Sophie's nightmares, Ray decided to opt for the path of neutrality.

"It's not your fault Sophie. No matter what happens, it isn't going to be your fault. Not now; not ever, okay?"

"But it is," she insisted passionately. "It _is_! It's because I'm different, like you used to be!"

That left him silent for a moment. The past-tense still struck a nerve, but Sophie's acknowledgment of her own abilities hit even closer. As long as he could do something about it, there was no way she was going to grow up alone the way he had, with only her secret for company.

"It still isn't your fault. If your daddy can't deal with you having a special gift, then that's his shortcoming, not yours." Stooping, he kissed her head and gave the smaller girls each a pat on the shoulder. "You three stay here. I'm gonna go call a time-out, okay?"

Each nodded and mumbled a tiny, bewildered "okay". Turning, he crept downstairs towards the site of the battle. Approaching the swinging kitchen door, the muffled words became clearer.

"NO! Either they go, or I go!" Derrick was shouting, his deep baritone voice booming off the tile floor and wooden cabinets. "I'm willing to make allowances for a child, she doesn't know any better, but she's got to go to a special school, take medication, get counseling, _something_! As for that freak of a brother of yours—"

Leah cut him off, rage shrilling her voice to the timbre of an over-heated teakettle. "Don't call him that! He's not a freak! He couldn't help the way he was any more than Sophie can help the way she is! He's been through what she's going through, no one knows better than he does what kind of help she needs! Our parents almost killed him because they didn't want to believe the truth! She doesn't need medication or counseling, she needs training! And I _want_ Ray to stay and teach her!"

"I said, _NO_," Derrick barked. "He's well enough he can go out and find his own place. I will not have that demented," he stammered for a moment, apparently having trouble finding a suitable epitaph, "_fairy _in my house another minute! Aren't you worried about your own daughter?! I don't know how you can trust him alone with our chil—"

The last syllable was hacked off by a vicious _SLAP_.

"How dare you," Leah's voice was quiet and deadly calm. "How dare you accuse him. How dare you even _think_ of something like that! Ray is my brother and he is the kindest, most gentle man on earth. You know perfectly well he'd never lay a hand on them. Why he'd sooner slit his own throat than see the girls harmed! As for what he may or may not have done behind closed doors, that is certainly none of _your_ affair! As long as he's lived under my roof he's been a perfect gentleman to my girls and to everyone else, so you just bite your tongue, Derrick Langlon. I will _not_ stand here and listen to you slander my family with groundless accusations!"

"SHUT UP!" Derrick bellowed, lunging and seizing Leah by the upper arms. She immediately raised her small fists to defend herself, canines bared, when Ray pushed the door open the rest of the way and knocked lightly.

"Hey guys, you're scaring the kids," he said mildly, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. "Everything okay? Anything I can do?"

His entrance had the desired effect. Derrick had all but dropped Leah on the floor and had taken a full pace back. However, his anger was still boiling and with a new target presenting itself to so readily, he turned his fury on Ray.

"Yes," Derrick growled. "Pack your bags and get out. I don't want you in my house a minute longer."

"Don't you listen to him!" Leah snapped. "Ray," she stated more calmly, "please stay as long as you like."

"Look, I'm not trying to cause problems—" Ray began.

"Well you _are_!" Derrick shouted, his face so close to Ray's that his breath left steam on his glasses lenses, before rounding on Leah again. "I told you before, either he goes, or _I_ go!"

Leah gave a derisive "hmph" in answer to Derrick's threat. "Go, then! See if I care!"

Without another word, Derrick roughly shoved Ray out of the way and into the kitchen table as he stormed out into the hall. Ray hoped the girls had sense to run back to their rooms. However, there was one girl who still needed his attention. Leah had sunk into one of the kitchen chairs, a strained look on her face and her breath coming in panted gasps.

"You okay?" he asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Yeah," she nodded, enough conviction in her voice that he half-believed her. "I'll be all right. When he calms down, he'll listen to reason."

Ray had his doubts about that. Upstairs, the sounds of innocent furniture being unfairly abused as Derrick packed was clearly audible. He seemed to be taking a long time. At length the walls shuddered making the shelves clatter as Derrick thundered down the stairs. Without stopping for so much as a goodbye, he pushed through the kitchen and out the back door, suitcase in one hand, and dragging something else in the other.

"MOMMY!" Sophie screamed, pulling with all her tiny might against her father's grip.

Her mother echoed her panicked cry. "SOPHIE!"

Ray was on his feet and out the door before his sister had even stood. Darting in front of her enraged husband, he stood blocking the path that led toward the garage.

"Hold on a second, Derrick, don't you think you'd better leave Sophie here?" he asked, the question light and friendly.

Rather than release his daughter, Derrick let the suitcase fall.

"Listen you perverted little mental case," he growled, advancing a step into Ray's personal space. "I am not letting you destroy this family. My daughter needs help, not your brainwashing. I am not going to let you warp her the same way those fagot friends of yours warped you."

Given the situation, Ray forced himself to let the remark slide. Backing down was not an option.

"You know how my dad exaggerates," he offered congenially. "I'm not trying to do anything other than help Sophie learn to use her gift. That's all. So why don't you just let her stay here. I'll even go and stay at mom and dad's place tonight, that way you won't have to wor—" He got no further. Derrick had seized him by the throat.

"Nice try, but your little Jedi mind tricks aren't going to work on me."

Ray would have liked to remind him that he was no longer able to employ Jedi mind tricks, but was too busy choking for air. Derrick's thick fingers pressed unpleasantly into the heavy scar tissue masking the Rainbow as well as his windpipe, making his struggle for air doubly difficult.

"Some hero," he smirked. "Dangling and wiggling like a worm on a hook. That's all you are, really. Just a sick kid pretending to be something he isn't."

Derrick's handsome, tanned face had softened from its enraged glare into a cold, self-satisfied smirk. Ray knew that look entirely too well.

"Just like when your dad brought you before the church elders to have you exorcised." Derrick said, talking more to himself than the smaller man struggling for air beneath his fingers. "I was just an assistant pastor back then. We never did get to finish."

Panic, cold and crawling, began to form in the pit of Ray's stomach. Oh God, he wouldn't. Except Ray knew perfectly well that he would.


	17. Chapter 17

July 16, 1965

_It wasn't how he would have chosen to spend a Saturday, but Ray wasn't sure how else to convince them he was super and not evil. His parents, family, and most of the church were convinced his visions were a result of an unclean spirit. So here he was surrounded by three pastors, five elders, all ten deacons, one assistant pastor, and his father for the Partridge in the Pear Tree._

_Ray wasn't sure which he was more nervous about: his father or the church council. Or maybe the assistant youth pastor, the guy had been giving him odd looks ever since they'd come in the door. Obediently, he sat down and waited quietly while the pastor poured a few drops of extra-virgin olive oil onto his hair and all the men gathered found space on his shoulders and head to lay at least one hand on him while they prayed. It would have been flattering if they hadn't been asking forgiveness and mercy for a lot of stuff he wasn't guilty of and freedom from an evil spirit he didn't have. Silently, Ray offered his own prayer of chagrined forgiveness for the whole affair. He could almost hear God's sympathetic snicker in response._

_At last they all stepped back and looked at him expectantly. Ray realized he was supposed to say something, to perhaps exclaim, "Glory be, I'm healed!" Except he wasn't healed, just rather embarrassed._

_"Er…I don't think anything happened…" he answered. The gathered church leaders muttered and shook their heads over a matter apparently much more serious than they'd thought. Ray inwardly cringed and gave thanks that his family was Protestant and this was the twentieth century and that burning at the stake was frowned upon by modern society. He hoped things would not get that desperate._

_"What else can we do?" his father asked gravely. Ray wished they wouldn't be so melodramatic about it._

_"Call upon the Name of the Lord," Pastor Sims answered with equal gravity. Oh great, just great. Ray braced himself, hoping the Name of the Lord wouldn't hurt. He didn't _think_ it would. Facing him, Pastor Sims seized him by both shoulders and bellowed into his face:_

_"COME OUT FOUL DEMON!"_

_Ray cringed but only from the volume of the voice assaulting his eardrums. Everyone waited a moment, their caught breath hanging in the still air. Ray dared to open his eyes again and punctured the anticipation._

_"Um…nothing happened."_

_A sigh from those gathered._

_"Lord, forgive my unbelief…" his father muttered, a hand over his face. It was not a lack of belief that was the problem, at least not in God. Ray could have used a few more people who believed _him_._

_"Let me try?"_

_Everyone turned to look at the assistant pastor, too busy forming elipsises to respond as he crossed the floor and faced Ray._

_He wasn't much older than Ray, though he towered over him. His smile was probably supposed to be kind, but fell short of the mark, the effect spoiled by a vague smugness. Whatever this kid had in mind, he felt sure he could do it. Suddenly he reached and clenched his fingers in the flesh over Ray's heart._

_"COME OUT!" he bellowed, his voice echoing ten times louder than the Pastor's, the very air seeming to reverberate at the magnified sound. Ray gasped as claws seemed to dig into his flesh, piercing his heart and anchoring themselves into his soul. The assistant pastor began to pull and Ray began to gag, his lungs suddenly robbed of oxygen. A burning sensation began all over his body, building until he felt sure he would burst into flames. The horrible pulling on his psyche continued, the assistant pastor still trying to wrench away something that was not there. Didn't he realize he had grabbed the wrong thing? If he didn't stop Ray would soon be short one soul. And he needed that, darnit. Souls were fairly important things to have as a human being, but the assistant pastor had his fingers tangled in more than that and was pulling hard on the invisible webs of Ray's very being. This was not good. He had to get free and he had to do it in the next thirty seconds. But the pain was so great, the heat so intense, his body was twitching and shuddering as if in the midst of a seizure. More out of luck than willpower, he managed to jerk one leg up where it connected soundly with the assistant pastor's crotch._

_It wasn't the best aim, but it did the trick. Releasing his grip, he fell to his knees, hands pressed over himself. The force of the kick toppled Ray's chair to the floor and he fell heavily to one side as it hit the hard carpet. Gasping hard he turned on his stomach, sucking in air like one who had only narrowly escaped an impressive drowning. His mind was reeling with the recent sensations, pain still burning in his arms and legs, his heart shivering in its now loosened nest inside his chest. Everything was shaking from his limbs to the office floor. Nothing seemed to want to hold still. Without warning, a wave of nausea, violent and heavy, engulfed him and he retched on the floor before he could even consider trying to hold it back. Not half-digest food, not mucus, not bile, but blood, liquid and red gushed from his mouth onto the floor, staining the carpet. Once, twice, three times he heaved, bringing up more of the deep-red stuff. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small, quiet voice reminded him that this could not possibly be healthy. Nobody else seemed to be terribly concerned about this, however._

_"What's the matter with him?" one of the Elders asked._

_"Is he having a seizure?"_

_"It's the demon fighting with him!"_

_Everyone seemed to agree on this latest suggestion. Ray cringed and vomited again, coughing slightly on the fluid still caught in his throat. Oh this could not possibly be good._

_"Let me, I didn't get to finish." It was the assistant pastor and he was coming toward him. Instinct and adrenaline kicking into overdrive, Ray hauled himself to his feet and shakily stood._

_"Keep him _away_ from me!"_

_"Ray…" his father began._

_"I just wanna help…" the assistant pastor finished._

_"Like hell!" Ray squeaked, completely forgetting he was in a church, his voice cracking to a screechy falsetto. "You nearly ripped my 'effing _SOUL_ out!!!"_

_The assistant pastor gawked, confused. Ray didn't wait for him to come up with an answer. Turning, he staggered out the door and down the hall as fast as his still wobbly legs would take him. They didn't take him far. Less than sixty paces down the narrow corridor he stumbled to a halt and doubled-over, arms pressed against his torso. A stabbing pain had begun low in his chest and his stomach was threatening to revolt again. Unable to hold it back, more blood spilled from his mouth, ruining another patch of carpeting. He watched with a sort of detached interest as the dark red stain turned black and slowly spread, engulfing everything around it._


	18. Chapter 18

April 22, 1979

As if he could forget _that_. Ray had no desire to take part in an encore of that particular incident, but could see no way to break free.

"It's not entirely your fault. You're still suffering from an unclean spirit. I mean really, how can a guy with demons pretend to be even remotely normal?" Derrick continued to hold him at arm's length, regarding him as one would a disobedient animal. "You do have a point; neither you nor Sophie can help acting the way you do. It's not really your fault. Because you're my brother, I'll help you."

Bad. This was bad. Derrick had a good six inches and 125lbs on him, and being held straight out at the end of his brother-in-law's thick arm put him far out of reach. Or did it? Inwardly, Ray smiled. Only a rookie would leave himself wide open to the same attack twice. Knowing he'd have only one shot, Ray mustered strength and oxygen, tightened his grip on Derrick's wide wrist and lashed out with one foot.

A sudden soprano squeak and Derrick's fingers abruptly released their grip. Although he'd braced himself for the drop, the sudden connection with the front yard still knocked what little breath he had from his lungs. Taking a precious second to inhale, Ray scrambled to his feet and lunged for Sophie.

"Run!" he rasped while her father knelt doubled-over on the lawn, both hands pressed against his crotch. "Go inside!" He saw her safely enfolded in her mother's arms before he felt a vice-like grip clamp around his neck. Derrick had grabbed him from behind and with the same hand shoved him against the pale yellow siding of the house, pinning Ray's right arm behind his back with the other. The sudden pressure on the scar tissue that protected the Rainbow triggered a stomach-turning revulsion in Ray, causing acid to surge into this throat.

"RAY!" he heard Leah shriek off to his right. If not for the volume of her cry, he might not have heard her at all considering his good ear was currently pressed so hard against the weatherproof vinyl that it was almost suctioned fast.

"DERRICK!" she cried. "DERRICK YOU PUT HIM _DOWN_!"

Completely deaf to her cries, Derrick ignored his wife, instead leaning all 287lbs against the smaller man, crushing him against the house wall.

"Not so tough now are you?" the words sounded low and quiet in his damaged eardrum. Frantically, Ray tried to fight past the nausea rising in his throat. Derrick bore down harder, the vice-like grip of his hand restricting oxygen and further pressing into the Rainbow, making him gag. There had to be a way out of this.

"Let me make one thing clear," Derrick rumbled dangerously. "I know it was Leah's job to 'take care' of you when you were kids, but she's _my wife_ now so you'd better make damn sure you keep your distance."

Ray gagged again as Derrick leaned harder still on the intersection of his scar, surely he could feel the little plastic strips of the Rainbow under his palm.

"I want you to get your shit and get the hell out. I don't ever want to see you near this house or my family ever again. If I ever find out you laid a hand on my wife or my girls I _will_ kill you."

"DERRICK!" Leah screamed as Ray began to froth, foam dripping down his chin. "DERRICK _STOP_!!!"

"The demons want out, don't they?" he asked, a sickeningly gentle note creeping into his tone. Oh God no. No, he liked his soul where it was, especially since he was still using it!

"Don't worry," Derrick was saying, "I'll pull out any darkness left in your heart."

The hand behind his neck did not budge, but the one pinning his right arm moved up another inch or two, twisting it painfully, until Ray could feel Derrick's fingers digging into his back above his heart. The familiar sensation of claws slicing deep into his psyche pierced him and he would have screamed if he'd had sufficient air. As it was, Ray only managed to spatter the siding with pink-colored froth.

"RAY!!!"

Sudden extra weight told him Leah had tried to pry her husband off him, but to no avail. Derrick shoved her aside with no more thought than a horse flicking away a fly. Ray couldn't spare much extra thought for her either, at the moment. The painful, prickly sensation of his psyche being picked apart like an old sweater was occupying too much of his attention. Black flecks were beginning to swarm his vision as Derrick slowly pulled his soul loose strand by strand. He had to do something and quick, but with his face being ground into the wall, there was no way he could successfully land another kick to Derrick's crotch. Ray tried to gather his strength, to use his remaining free hand- oddly enough Derrick had left Ray's dominant hand free, evidently completely forgetting that his brother-in-law was a lefty- to do…he wasn't sure what.

Wait. What the…? The agony of a soul unraveling was fading, replacing it a strange, refreshing sensation. Behind the pain, the burning of his oxygen-starved lungs, the stomach-turning revulsion of a wound aggravated, he felt it. Energy. Power. Derrick's power. The accident might have robbed Ray of his own gift, but it hadn't robbed him of the many years of hard-earned control. Gritting his teeth, he forced past the discomfort and _pulled_ for all he was worth. The energy was nothing like his own, tainted and colored as it was by the well of another soul, but he gulped it down like a man dying of thirst. Ray wasn't a drinker, alcohol tended to muck with one's abilities dreadfully, but his brother-in-law's energy reminded him of the rankest sort of frat house beer dregs; pungent, bitter, no longer cold, but rendered warm and rancid by anger and the body that had held it. At any other time he would have been repulsed, but it was all there was and so he mentally held his nose and chugged.

It took Derrick a minute to figure out that something was wrong. In his perplexity he loosened his grip slightly.

"What the--?"

It was all he needed. Taking advantage of the faintly relaxed grip, Ray pushed off the wall with his free hand, wound up, and let go. The _crunch_ of Derrick's aquiline nose beneath his knuckles brought a deeply satisfied grin to Ray's face as he paused to spit and clear his mouth of acid. The larger man reeled, stumbling a few steps back and putting a hand to his now profusely bleeding nose.

"Why you little--!"

He didn't get any farther. Ray had leaped on him, ten years of barely placated rage and frustration adding force to more judicial brotherly and super instinct. This bastard was going _down_. Granted he was rusty and out of practice, but his body remembered the moves and his reflexes were still there if not as sharp as they had once been. That was all right, Derrick wasn't exactly prime super villain material. His punches, though powerful, were slow and clumsy. Ray dodged them easily, landing kicks and punches of his own. This was almost too easy. After giant robots, twelve-foot-tall mutants, IEDs, runaway trains, busses, and gangs of a dozen or more X-acto-armed thugs, a fight with a guy only twice his weight and half again his height seemed laughable. In the back of his mind he realized he was enjoying this more than he probably should, that this wasn't like him. Get the job done. No need to draw it out. And yet he _wanted_ to pound Derrick into his perfectly manicured lawn, to teach him a lesson, to make him feel the burning shame and cold sear of rejection he'd lived with for over a decade. If nothing else, Derrick had to be made to understand what his decision would do to his daughter. Stolen power still coursing through his veins in surges of fire and ice, Ray slugged him one last time and marveled that he didn't feel even mildly guilty as the big man stumbled to his knees.

"Now," Ray panted, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, "I have a couple things to tell _you_."

Stooping, he grabbed Derrick by the lapels and hauled him to his feet, untroubled that such a feat would ordinarily be impossible. However, as soon as he was upright once more, the larger man seized him around the neck with both hands.

"I should kill you," he whispered.

"It's _my_ turn to talk," Ray returned, grabbing Derrick's bare wrists in his hands and rebounding the bigger man's power back as a shield, knocking him to the ground. Goggle-eyed, Derrick sat there, trying not to shrink back into the lawn as Ray advanced on him.

"You have _no idea_ what you're doing, what you have! Your little girl isn't cursed, she's _special_! And _you_ made her that way!"

"No!" Derrick shouted; voice amazingly shrill for a man so big. "No! It's _her_ fault!" He glanced at Leah who stood fearfully watching from the front porch. "It's her family that's full of freaks, not mine!"

"We _both_ carry it, you _moron_!" Ray shot back, losing patience with his in-law. "And if you don't soon get it through your thick head, you're going to kill your little girl with medication and treatments she doesn't need! I know better than anybody that power like hers can kill. It almost killed me! If I'd have had training earlier I could have avoided a lot of needless angst, but nobody knew and nobody wanted to know. God forbid I might _actually_ be sane and super instead of just epileptic and mentally ill." Okay, yeah, he was still pretty bitter about that. "If you think I'm going to stand by and watch history repeat itself with my niece, think again!"

Derrick's insistence was stubborn. "She can't be! She _can't_! She's no more super than I am!"

Ray rolled his eyes in frustration. "You _are_ super, dumb-ass! You may as well acknowledge it and get over yourself. It's not a crime; at least, it isn't in the rest of the country."

"I am not super! I'm not! I won't be!" Derrick howled. Ray stared at him, caught between amazement and disgust.

"You don't want to be super, huh? Think _you've_ got an unclean spirit?"

Something cold and menacing was laughing in the back of his head, something that smiled at the panicked expression and cold sweat beading on Derrick's face.

"You don't want it? Fine. You know, they take power away from guys like you. I can't do that, I don't know how, but I'll be happy to do to you what you all worked so hard to do to me."

The fiery ice of Derrick's power surged, practically drowning him as he sucked it down. He could feel his hair lift and his clothing ripple in a wind that did not exist. Sweat streamed down Derrick's handsome olive-skinned face, his fingers plucking weakly at a hand clamped around his throat. It took a moment for Ray to realize that hand was his. Abruptly he let the connection and his brother-in-law drop. Derrick crumbled to his knees and stared up at him wide-eyed. Ray regarded him coldly, the reservoir of stolen energy whirling about him in a windless storm.

"Get out."

He went. Scrambling to his feet, Derrick staggered to his car, started the engine, and sped away on screeching tires. Ray stood and watched as the sleek, black sedan raced down the street and out of view. Only then did he notice that he felt extremely ill.

"Ray…?" Leah asked, Sophie still locked protectively in her arms, taking a single hesitant step off the porch.

He didn't answer. Like a college boy after a bar binge, he'd drunk too much and too deeply. The power wasn't his. It was foreign, hostile, and there was too much of it to try to control himself. Suddenly, he didn't want it. It smelled and tasted foul to him, stinging his nose with ammonia and souring his throat with acid. Head spinning with the effort of trying to either control or dispel the energy he'd taken from Derrick, Ray's legs gave way and he fell to his knees. Remaining upright became too much of an effort and so he fell forward to lean on his hands. He had to do something with it, had to get it out of his head, out of his body. Falling back on old methods, Ray gave in, relaxed, and heaved into the grass.

"Mommy…!" Sophie's repulsed and frightened cry went unnoticed as he retched into the golf-course-perfect turf of Leah's front lawn. He hadn't thought he'd eaten so much. It wasn't the food that had made him sick, of course, but every regurgitated mouthful gave up a wave of Derrick's power. It didn't take him long to run out of lunch, but there was still foreign energy that no part of him wanted. Entire body on edge with revulsion, he felt himself heave again, bringing up mucous and bile. He couldn't stop. When that ran out, red added itself to the mess already flooding the grass. Still there was more to be gotten rid of. How much had he drunk? Humiliation tinged panic as he felt his bladder get into the act.

"Ray," Leah's hand was on his shoulder. "Ray, say something!"

He would have liked to, but found no oxygen to spare as blood and acid surged into his throat yet again. Ray had never had a hangover, but imagined even the worst aftermath could not be as bad as this. Though every nerve trembled on edge, the worst of Derrick's energy finally seemed to be gone. Panting hard, spraying blood with every breath, Ray allowed himself to give in and collapse.

"RAY!!!"

He never heard his sister's panicked cry or her hasty instructions to her children. Lying on his back, breath fading with consciousness, his open eyes stared emptily up at the clear April sky.


	19. Chapter 19

April 25, 1979

Dr. Karl Straussen shook his head; almost an entire year's progress gone in ten minutes. Ray had only recently left the crutches behind, the slight drag to his gait gradually becoming less and less obvious. Now with two of the Rainbows broken and the third badly squashed, he'd have to start all over again. The poor boy just couldn't seem to win for losing.

Because he'd been a gibbering mess after regaining consciousness, he'd been moved to what was commonly known to lawyers as "a secure psychiatric facility"; in this case, Swallowhaven. While no longer a super, he had been one once, and many of the physical quirks still applied. A regular psych ward wouldn't really know what to do with him, but Dr. Karl and Eddy- God bless him- did. Physically, anyway. In all honesty, Ray wasn't sure what to do with himself. Much of his Swallowhaven stay would be remembered only as a blank and empty haze. What he did remember was mostly second-hand relations from Eddy and the others.

He had Leah to thank for everything. It had been Leah who had dialed Dr. Straussen and Rick before the paramedics, Leah who invented the cover story, Leah who appropriately burst into tears on their father's shoulder and bawled that she owed her life to her brother. Once safely in NSA custody, it was easy to convince Ray's parents that he was in need of medical attention not available on the East Coast; not that it wasn't untrue. No one wanted to take any chances, and so for the second time, Ray was cut off from his immediate family.

All things considered, it had ended well. The charges Derrick had filed against him had been dropped entirely, the scuffle ruled an act of self-defense since Leah and Sophie both bore some light defensive marks and Ray had clearly fared the worst out of any of them. No lasting damage had been done to either property or persons, aside from a divorce suite currently pending against Derrick. While it had caused a minor family scandal, nobody could honestly say they weren't on some level glad to be rid of him. For once in his life Ray had the unwavering support and heart-felt sympathy of his family. The irony was he didn't want it.

The front yard throw-down had started as an honest act of gallantry, an instinctive attempt to protect his youngest sister and her children. However, it hadn't ended that way. He didn't feel overly guilty about bloodying Derrick's nose, that had been a _long_ time in coming, and he felt little remorse about running him out of neighborhood, house, and family. What disturbed Ray was the way he himself had acted, what he'd almost done before the terror in Derrick's eyes had shocked him back into reality.

There was a format one followed when thwarting evil; one always asked and offered the opportunity to surrender. From purse-snatcher to would-be world dictators, everyone had to be given the chance to come along quietly. If that didn't work, well, they'd had their chance, the gloves came off, and they got what they gave. Supers, like soldiers, were killers. Death, obviously, was not the preferred outcome, but it did happen. Too often it happened to innocent bystanders, people caught in the crossfire and not just the Bad Guy of the week. Ray had cried the first time there'd been collateral damage, been sick the first time he'd bloodied his hands. The responsibility of a life taken was not an easy thing to live with. The one thing that made those deaths by either accident or intent easier to give up to God was the fact that he hadn't _wanted_ anyone, not even the villains, to be seriously hurt. The motivation behind attacking Derrick, however, had been less altruistic.

The vague bitter flavor of Derrick's energy still lingered in the back of his throat like the stinging nausea of acid reflux. It made him want to spit, to vomit, to brush his teeth and guzzle mouth wash until the antiseptic mint cleansed his mouth and throat and nose of him. If only he really could rinse away the guilt crawling in his stomach. He had _wanted_ to pound Derrick into the turf, _wanted_ to put the fear of God into him, to make him experience in ten minutes all the years of unwarranted torture he himself had suffered. And while he'd dimly wished for all that in the back of his head, what really scared him was that this time he'd _acted_ on it.

He had tried to drain Derrick of any and all power he had in him, to suck him down to the dregs and further still, to drink him dry until he had no hope of ever tearing into another undeserving soul ever again. He had intentionally tried to do to Derrick what had accidentally happened to him: he had tried to make him burn out. In taking judgment into his own hands, Ray had crossed a line himself, and while the state had nothing against him, he lay trembling, wondering what the super community might decide.

It had been over a year now since the accident, just as long since he'd had a vision, or even an unusual dream. He was one of them again, just a common man. Dr. Karl and the Professor had both ruled him a Burn-Out. His power was gone and it would not grow back. That alone had been hard enough to swallow, but Ray had done his best to hold his nose and drain his cup of wormwood and gall without complaint. Training Sophie had allowed him a much-needed outlet in several ways, but he should have known his good deed wouldn't go either unnoticed or unpunished. The law ruled him a hero; but would the real heroes now brand him a villain? There was only one small consolation to be had: his power was already gone. There was nothing more they could do to him.


	20. Chapter 20

May 2, 1979

"C'mon, Hon, something's been eating you. Don't just sit there, talk to me." Dr. Mina's polite pleading went unnoticed. Ray sat across from her impassive; his only reply a stiff, silent suggestion of a shrug by a tilt of his head.

"Are you still worried the NSA is going to bring you up short because of the incident with your estranged brother-in-law?"

Ray gingerly shook his head. "Not really. What more can they do to me?" _Let me live?_

The unuttered words hung ominously in the air. Dr. Mina twirled the pen in her fingers, thinking. "Can I suggest something?"

"Shoot."

"I don't think you're feeling guilty over what happened with Derrick- at least that isn't the primary reason you're so upset. I'm sure some part of you feels vaguely chagrined at your own bad behavior, but that's all secondary. I think you're mourning."

"Mourning?" Ray echoed, incredulous.

"Yes, mourning. You're acting exactly the way you did when you first heard you'd burned out. It might not have been yours, and it might not have been honestly gained, but it was still _power_. For ten glorious minutes you were _yourself_ again...and now you're not. And it's killing you."

Ray contemplated his lap, turning the words over in his head while Dr. Mina continued.

"What I still can't figure is how you managed to steal his power at all."

"I've been training my niece," he reminded her.

"Neither of which, according to previous Burnout cases, you should have been able to do."

He didn't raise his head, but instead looked up at her from beneath the shadow of dark hair and scowling brows.

"Aren't all the other cases too _dead_ to do any studying on?"

"There _are_ a handful who survived several years after losing their abilities."

"Didn't they all die of broken hearts?"

"Touche," conceded Dr. Mina. "None of them ever really got over the loss. To some, it's more than just a calling; it's an integral part of their psyche and without it… It's too important a piece to try to function without."

"It's like…I dunno, riding a bike. When my spine first got reconnected I could barely get my lungs in synch, but that didn't mean I didn't remember _how_."

Dr. Mina nodded quietly. "You press the button but nothing happens."

"Pretty much."

"That's gotta be frustrating."

"It is. I…yeah, okay, I miss my powers. I mean I had only _just_ gotten good at them!"

Dr. Mina offered a sympathetic half-smile. "Isn't that always the way?"

"Just like I'd _just_ ditched the crutches and now I've got to start all over again."

There was nothing Mina had to say to that and so Ray filled the silence with a heavy sigh.

"Is one guy really worth so much bother?"

"_I_ think so."

"I'm not sure I do."


	21. Chapter 21

May 13, 1979

"He's at Swallowhaven now?"

"He is."

"How's he doing?" Dr. Julian Xerxes asked over a cup of Earl Grey (cream, no sugar). His petite associate exhaled noisily and ran a hand through his hair.

The supers-only cross of hospital and sanitarium had recently passed its fortieth birthday. An institution run by supers for supers, it stood alone as the only one of its kind. Those with special abilities didn't have to worry about keeping their secret while receiving care within those walls. The knowledgeable staff and somewhat remote location created the ideal environment in which to recover physically as well as mentally. Dr. Straussen himself could attest to this.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," Dr. Karl Straussen replied. "Physically he's healthy-"

"Aside from the obvious," Julian put in.

"- but his morale is worse than it was _before_ he went East," Karl continued as if the thread of words had not been broken. "He's relapsed and I don't know what to do for him. I'm an MD not a psychologist."

"Has Mina had anything to say on the matter?"

Karl shook his head. "He hasn't said anything in sessions. He won't speak to her or anyone. It's as if he's given up. All he'll say is that he's tired."

"Tired?"

"Yes. Something about how he wishes he could go to sleep and not have to wake up. Not an uncommon reaction for someone in his situation, but…he was doing so well…"

A non-committal "mm" was all Julian gave in the way of a reply, his focus fixed elsewhere.

"What?"

"Only thinking…" Julian mused, tapping one finger against his chin.

"About…?" Karl prompted.

"Have you heard of a Dr. James Herriot?"

"I'm afraid not.

"I didn't think you might. He's a veterinarian, you see."

Karl didn't see, and so waited for his friend to continue.

"Published his experiences as an English country vet in a series of novels. There is a particular treatment mentioned which may well benefit our young friend."

"And that would be…?"

"Several nights- and days- unbroken rest. When confronted with animals on their last legs, Dr. Herriot gave them an exceptionally high dosage of medication that dulled the pain and allowed them to sleep peacefully. Late the following day, the animal awoke restored to its former health. The animal's body was entirely able to heal on its own; the creature simply needed the time and peace to do so."

Karl nodded slowly. "Do you mean to say…?"

"I'm not sure the Burn-Out assessment was entirely accurate. Raymond's confrontation with his brother-in-law is proof of that. I think all he needs is a chance to really, fully, let himself heal."

Karl gawked. "Re-induce coma?"

Julian shook his head. "It needn't be that extreme, I don't think. For our purposes, I believe a holiday might be more effective."

"A vacation?" Karl echoed, bewildered.

"Precisely. The poor boy's spent the last two years in either an isolated hospital ward or surrounded by people who were quite literally killing him with kindness. A few weeks of _not_ being poked or prodded in one sense or another will do him good. He's well enough to leave, even if he isn't walking, correct?"

Karl nodded.

"Then why not contact the rest of his team? I'm sure they'd be glad to see him again. Introverted as he may seem, boy always did better with others around him."

Nodding, Karl had to agree. "I can't believe I didn't think of that myself. Then again, it's my job to heal the body, not the spirit. I suppose I forget sometimes that the two are not mutually exclusive."

Julian smiled. "And yet you're married to Edith."


	22. Chapter 22

May 16, 1979

Things had changed. Hell, _everything_ had changed; a lot of it he still didn't even know about. The fight had set him back months, but at the moment, he was too tired to care. The pain medication, heavy as it was, wasn't really helping. Instead it left him blissfully half-stoned, just foggy enough not to care over much about what might be happening to him personally, or to anyone else at large. Because of this, he hardly noticed as the van pulled parallel to the curb and came to a halt. There was a notable absence of second automobile in the narrow driveway, a yellow bicycle chained to the basket ball hoop's pole. The bike looked familiar, but the reference would not come. The automatic platform being lowered registered as only a vague detail at the back of his mind. Half curious, he turned his head to notice two familiar-looking people standing in the doorway; one huge and blonde, the other stocky and brunette. Except it wasn't the brunette he'd anticipated. Alex and Dan stood, their smiles genuine but contrasting sharply with the discomfort in their eyes. (Dan's- the bike was Dan's.) Where Charles had gotten to, Ray could only guess. Probably inside; maybe with Misty and Seth.

"Hey guys."

Ray was proud he'd managed not to slur; the bridgework and medication tended to make intelligible speech difficult. They were smiling, though striving not to stare. Ray gave a weak smile of his own; a crooked, helpless, rumpled up-curve that hinted at the shrug he could not give. He knew he looked better than when they'd last seen him unconscious and in pieces several months ago, but the improvement was probably marginal at best. Skinny and scarred, what little muscled he'd once possessed had disintegrated to wiry shreds of sinew. The remains of an unfortunate haircut long grown out to an embarrassing length only heightened the distortion of a broken nose and fractured jaw. It had been a bit of a shock to Ray himself when Dr. Karl had finally permitted him a mirror. It was like looking at his brother- there was a family resemblance, but he no longer looked like himself.

The chair was probably the most glaringly obvious mark of his injury. The Rainbows in his back had been damaged during the front yard throw down and Doctor's Karl and Julian were still perfecting replacements. Until then, it was back to wheels for him. After the limited freedom of mobility that crutches allowed, it was a frustrating setback. It could have been worse. The Chair (he tended to think of it in capitals) was a sporty cherry red racer instead of the clunky, rear-handled stroller the hospital had offered. Mustering strength and thoughts, Ray grasped the wheel rims and pushed. He could do this much.

"Ray," Alex smiled, and knelt to give him an extremely careful hug. "Welcome home, buddy."

Ray returned it clumsily, the movement in his arms and hands limited by the damaged Rainbow between his shoulder blades. Dan was next, and peeking shyly around the doorway stood Misty with Seth at her elbow. Seth bent for a brief embrace, but rather than give him a hug herself, Misty chose to take one of his hands for a moment. Her smile genuine but quiet, she squeezed his hand once and then stepped back.

Although little had changed about the house, a few things had been altered here and there. A couple of knick-knacks seemed to me missing from the living room, and some of the furniture had been rearranged in order to create spaces more than wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair. A few 'parking spaces' had even been worked into the layout of the room; adding an improvised fourth seat to the sofa and a shared viewing spot with the beaten old recliner.

The stairs, however, posed a problem; even had there been space to add a ramp, it still would have been far too steep. This being the case, Seth and Dan took Ray's minimal belongings upstairs for him. The clothes pole of the closet now hopelessly out of reach, they did their best to place as many items as they could in the bureau. Evidently Ray's parents had replaced much of his wardrobe. A curious number of Oxford shirts and sweater vests had usurped the old cartoon T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts Ray had once favored. The Favorite Jeans were also missing as were the amusingly patterned boxers, replaced with drab khakis and some disturbingly retro blue-striped drawers. Even his socks had not been spared. Seth boggled briefly at the little rolls of white, black, and navy.

"This ain't right…" he remarked before dumping them into the lowest drawer.

"This is stuff my grandpa used to wear," Dan added, eying the vintage shorts with distaste. "Please tell me he hasn't got a powder blue sport coat?"

"Haven't found one yet."

"Makes me wish he'd forgotten a few more things here."

"Yeah."

Dinner was an oddly quiet affair. Conversation rose up and receded wavelike as each took their turn attempting to get Ray to say something and ultimately failed. Talking without him adding anything felt too much like willfully ignoring him and the result was awkward at best. Despite Alex having made Ray's favorite (a veggie-heavy stir-fry with beef and ginger), Ray ate less than he said, pushing the food listlessly around his bowl with a fork since chopsticks were currently beyond his dexterity. In the end, he wound up dozing, head lolling on one shoulder, before everyone else had finished. Without a word, Alex rose from the table, scooped Ray out of the chair, and carried him upstairs to his room.

"What did they _do_ to him?" Misty blurted, finally shattering the silence as Alex came back downstairs.

"Tried to turn him into an accountant," grumbled Seth around a mouthful of bokchoy.

Alex raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"They've got him dressing like my grandfather." Dan reiterated. Alex said nothing, reclaiming his seat at the table and staring meditatively at his unfinished meal.

"Reminds me of when we first met him. Those first few weeks, he was so shy, so guarded… I'd never seen a kid wound so tight and yet so silent."

"Guess he fell back into old habits," Dan commented.

"Guess so," Alex replied, absently stabbing a piece of beef. Despite his promise to himself that he was NOT going to be anything but supportive and smiling upon Ray's return, his throat had grown uncomfortably tight and little red-hot needles were pricking behind his eyes. Swallowing beef and tears at once nearly choked him, but he managed it. "But he's home now."


	23. Chapter 23

May 18, 1979

"Ray."

He looked up. Misty stood over him, wielding the kitchen scissors, a spray bottle in the other hand and an old towel draped over her arm.

"You _need_ a haircut."

He did. Initially shaved almost bald due to the first round of surgeries, his hair had grown out far longer than he'd ever had it. Bangs obscuring not just his right eye but also his now useless left, the rear lengths fell nearly to his shoulders, making him look like what Charles referred to as a "hemp-wearing granola-eater". The look was not entirely flattering on Ray's fine features and petite build.

"C'mere."

He didn't have anywhere to go, really. Wheelchair parked near the window, he'd been sitting paging awkwardly through something small with a heavy leather binding and gold-trimmed edges.

"Foxe? Good grief Ray, you _must_ be in a Mood," Misty remarked, recognizing the cover. "Or is this a backward attempt at self-encouragement?"

Tilting his head to the right in what passed for a shrug these days, he gave no verbal response. Misty herself became silent for a minute as she draped the towel around his shoulders and took out a soft-bristled brush.

"Hold still," she told him gently. His head being the only fully mobile part of him at the moment, it was not the needless request it might have seemed. He stiffened briefly as the boar bristles touched his head, but gradually relaxed as Misty drew the brush through his over-long hair. Like a dog having its ears scratched, Ray leaned into the bristles slightly, and Misty followed the brush strokes with another from the palm of her free hand. Eventually she put the brush down and simply stroked his hair with her fingers, letting him lean back against her midriff ever so slightly. With only the back of his head visible, it was impossible to gauge his expression, and he made no sound. Carefully, she leaned and lightly rested her cheek against his head.

"Good to have you home."

It both saddened and relieved her that he could no longer hear the separate sentence she'd spoken in her head.

Doing her best to regain focus, Misty allowed herself a moment more of smoothing the surprisingly soft brown strands before wetting them with the spray bottle. Deftly, she combed the dampened hair between her fingers and clipped. Ray's hairstyle had remained more or less unchanged in the six years she'd known him; the cut not unlike something her little brother had sported as a child. It was a slightly juvenile style, but it worked well enough on Ray; cut close in the back, parted off to one side, the lesser part brushed back and short, the longer brushed forward and over one eye. Usually his bangs were a bit long, dangling into his line of vision. However, since it was the only functional eye he had left, Misty purposely trimmed his bangs a few millimeters shorter than normal to ensure his vision wouldn't be impaired any further.

"There," she said at length, lightly running the brush over his hair again in order to emancipate any stray snippets and being careful to avoid the god-awful scar that began just under his hairline. They'd learned the hard way that it shouldn't be touched.

"What do you think?" She held a hand mirror up so he could appraise her handiwork.

"Not bad for a crazy lady with a pair of scissors," he quipped. The delivery had been a bit flat, his smile more for her benefit than any actual humor on his part, but she still could have hugged him. Swallowing hard, she forced a smile of her own.

"Smart-ass."

"No, that's Charles."

This time she _did_ laugh.

"Right. Charles is the smart-ass, Dan's the asshole, Alex is the bully, Seth's the slacker, and you're…" _still handsome even with all these scars…sweet and kind…smart without being a show-off…grounded and faithful… fucking_ alive _and sitting right here in front of me…_ Again, that guilty relieved feeling that he couldn't see what was going through her head anymore. If he would meet her eyes they would have given her away just as clearly, but Ray looked at her face as a unit, never meeting her pupil-to-pupil. Maybe it was just as well.

"I'm the Bible-thumper," he reminded her.

"Right," she nodded, blinking back tears. "You're the Bible-thumper."

The phantom of a smile flickered at his lips, and she leaned forward, not sure she'd really seen it at all.

"Crazy lady," the words fell softly, the teasing nickname spoken more gently than any "my darling"; inflection sweetly carrying the veiled three syllables he hid from her just as she had hidden them from him.

She'd knelt in front of his chair, the mirror set forgotten on the floor. The smile ghosted past again and she stretched, hoping to keep it in place, to pin it to his lips with her own. Ray too had leaned forward as much as his limited mobility would allow. A hand's breadth away, their eyes met. Misty inhaled slightly, unprepared for what she'd seen hidden far back in the dark brown depths. Abruptly, his eyes dropped and he turned his head, ashamed.

He didn't see her brittle smile, but squeezed weakly back as she put her hand around his.

_I love you…_

They'd never know it had been thought in unison.


	24. Chapter 24

May 25, 1979

"The hell?"

Alex and Dan looked up from their respective boxes of trinkets to see what Ray's remark had been about.

"What is it?"

"…it looks like Joe's hat."

It was exactly that. Ray, perplexed, turned the old Stetson over in his hands, tracing the beaded hatband and the vulture and eagle feathers with one finger. Although he'd been told his mentor had visited often during his sojourn into unconsciousness, Ray had never gotten to speak with his old mentor. How the hat had gotten mixed in with the get-well memorabilia was beyond him.

"Why the heck is it in here?"

Dan took the hat and examined it. "He must have left it… I guess Margie packed it up with the rest of the stuff; probably thought it was yours."

Ray took the hat back and set it on his knees. "I'll have to give it back to him."

The long silence that followed made him look up again.

"What?"

Alex and Dan each shifted, exchanging an uncomfortable glance. Sinking to one knee so he'd be at Ray's eye level, Alex did his best to brace himself for what had to be said.

"You don't need to give it back, buddy. He gave it to you."

"Yeah but…it's his _hat_" Ray insisted, since hats were important things to have in the high desert and Joe's Stetson was the most beloved out of all his scant possessions.

"And now it's yours. He wanted you to have it."

Stretch as he might, Ray could read nothing from Alex's mind, but the regretful shimmer in his eyes belied a truth he didn't want to believe.

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Ray…" Alex took a deep breath. "Joe died…he died not long after you woke up."

"Died?" The word tasted foreign and bitter on his tongue, his features scrunching to display his distaste.

"The last time he visited, he hold us he wouldn't be coming back, and to tell you goodbye for him."

Ray said nothing, only contemplated the beaten hat on his knees. The impulse to try it on tickled at the back of his mind. Instead, he handed it back to Alex.

"Set it on the top shelf."

"You don't want it?"

Ray shook his head. "Not yet. Just leave it up there. I'll get it down myself."


	25. Chapter 25

May 27, 1979

_Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…_

One of the earliest verses he could remember having drummed into his head; a mass of lilting, centered type-face without cadence or poetry, delivered at break-neck speed lest he forget a word during a dramatic pause. It wasn't evil he feared, anyway. He let his mind wander over the passage, stretching out the verses and converting them to lines and music in his head. If it worked, it would be beautiful and calming, but tonight the syllables swirled in a rapid torrent similar to the long-ago Sunday school recitation.

_Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me…_

Imagine a grown man of almost thirty clutching stuffed toys as he slept. Kermit in one arm, Hank the Cow Dog in the other, and Lion standing guard near his head, Ray didn't feel much more comforted than if he had been empty-handed. Stuffies were all very fine, they filled the empty space, but they did it only so well.

_Yes, even as the watchman awaits for the dawn…_

The hall light cast a dim shadow of light into his darkened room, the street lamp also projected little yellow squares of light onto the wall. Once it had frightened him, now it was something to cling to. The darkness seemed oppressive with only him to fill it. Yes, he could hear Dan shift next door from time to time, and the bed creak as Alex turned across the hall, but it wasn't the same. They weren't _right there_ anymore. Out of contact and therefore out of reach, no longer could he simply stretch with his thoughts and touch them as they slept. Now visiting required the very physical and very mechanical complications of getting up, struggling into the wheelchair, and rolling out the door and down the hall to closed doors and groggy roommates. And he'd disturbed them enough just by being in the house.

_Attention-whore. Wuss. Cry-baby. What's the matter with you?_

The only voice left in his head seemed to be that of his parents. An endless litany of scolding and admonition haunted him, but no amount of self-derision could ease the choking sensation in his throat. Indeed, it only made it worse, and he'd promised himself he wasn't going to cry. Not this time. What did he have to cry about, really?

_Stupid brain. Shut up. Go to sleep._

But sleep was no closer despite the pain medication for the lingering ache of stitches and surgery. In a way he was glad for the minor discomfort, even for the maddening pins-and-needles feeling that started in his hips and extended to his knees before dwindling into numbness and then nothing at all. It meant he was still there, still whole if not wholly functional. That would come. He hoped.

_Lo, I am with you always…_

Except- and this brought a fair amount of guilt- it sometimes didn't seem like it. It was always at night that everything caught up to him; that all the emotional baggage gathered and pounced. Not until he was alone, the room dark and the moon looking in at him through the window would the specters of his own doubts and fears come creeping in to prey upon him. If asked, he couldn't have even said _why_ he was so upset or _what_ was bothering him. He only knew he was frightened, nervous; something amping up his heart-rate in preparation to run for his life if only he could move his legs.

Swallowing hard, Ray felt tiny needles prick behind his eyes. Dammit, he was _not_ going to cry. Except he could feel hot trails of salt water slipping down his cheeks. This brought some minor relief, and he therefore resolved that if he must cry, he would do so silently. The guys had enough to bother about with him; he didn't need to wake anyone up for groundless theatrics.

_Stop it. Pull yourself together._

_Consider it pure joy my brothers…_

Oh FUCK this.

Turning his head, he did his best to hide his face in Kermit's nappy plush. Tears staining the worn felt, Ray tried to remain silent. Something in his chest ached, his very heart feeling sore and cold. There were no monsters under the bed or in the closet, but the feeling reminded him of a time when he wore cowboy pajamas and felt safe on his father's lap.

God, he just wanted to be _held_.

Except that would mean imposing on Alex or Dan, and he'd done that too much already. It would mean awkwardness, and nervousness about coming off wrong or implying things he didn't mean to. Even Eddy, who took his hand on a near daily basis, did not extend the touch beyond that. It helped, but it never seemed to be enough. Perhaps that was why.

_Oh for godsake go to SLEEP!_

Even medication wasn't going to help him tonight.


	26. Chapter 26

April 1, 1979

"Al?"

Few people dared to call him that. Misty was one of them.

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you?"

He shrugged. "Shoot."

"What happened?"

"Huh?" Alex blinked, honestly perplexed.

"I wasn't here, I was getting cussed-out by Ray's parents that week. I know it probably wouldn't have made a difference if I or anyone else had been here to mediate," _except Ray_, "but… Seriously, what happened? You two've had fights before and always managed to kiss and make up."

There was kindness in her eyes, and sympathetic honesty on her face. She wasn't asking to satisfy her own curiosity so much as presenting a chance for him to vent. Although not a telepath herself, Misty looked as if she might start his crying for him.

"C'mon Al, talk to me. Please."

He looked over at her, clenching his jaw and swallowing convulsively. He hadn't explained it to anyone, not even Tasha, just said that it was over and Charles had moved out. Charles was gone, Ray was gone, he was marooned by himself in a house that was too big for just him -and Christ, he felt the irony of something being too _big_ for him- and he'd spent the past week sleeping on the couch in the game room because he couldn't take the big empty bed. "I - can't, I mean it..." he trailed to a halt. He'd never been good with words, not when it came to emotions; his eloquence was limited to events, things, places. Feelings lodged in his throat and choked him. There was a reason his two best friends were telepaths.

Being in love with a telepath meant never having to say you're sorry, he'd thought. Somehow it seemed he'd been wrong.

"It's okay," she told him, doing her best not to let an edge of power-laced compulsion into her voice. The last thing she wanted to do, after all, was force him. However, the undernote of things unsaid remained intact: _You don't have to act all macho for _me_. Don't be ashamed. I'm here if you need me. I understand._ She did understand at least in part, what with a brief succession of unsuccessful relationships in her modest dating history. Breakups were awkward at best, even under completely amicable conditions. This was something in which she was guiltily glad she had no first-hand experience.

"I...I miss him too..." The catch in her voice had been unintentional, she was supposed to be the supportive one in this scenario. However, coming home after an impressive upbraiding from Ray's parents to find she'd lost yet another friend had not been pleasant for her either. Granted her relationship with Charles had not been close, but they'd traded insults and the smiles to go with them like siblings. Three seemed like such a small number now, especially since two legs of the trio had been removed, leaving her and Dan to try to keep the remaining support from toppling over without its fellows. The irony wasn't lost on her either.

He shook his head. "It's not even that," he said, and cleared his throat. "He just - I just...." He shook his head again and swallowed convulsively. The words were hard, sharp and pointy and they got caught in his chest. Best to shove through them; when had pain ever kept him from doing something? "He's not who I thought he was."

Of all possible answers, somehow, Misty hadn't been expecting that. Charles had never exactly been out-going, but he could be personable in his own sarcastic way. Certainly he'd held things back from his friends- telepaths or not- but for him to have hidden something damaging enough to destroy what she had assumed to be a solid relationship? It did not compute to say the least.

"I don't understand," she told him, voicing her confusion. "I mean sure he could be an ass, but...it was never personal."

She wanted to believe the best of both of them, to be told it was a mutual misunderstanding, yet another of their loud yet ultimately recoverable differences of opinion. There were no Bad Guys in this house. Yet she couldn't retract the words that escaped:

"Alex...what did he _do _to you?"

"It wasn't me," he replied, looking up at her with something like surprise. "What could he do to _me_? No. It was Ray." He rubbed the back of his neck and shivered. "He wanted to pull the plug on Ray."

From a distance she felt her jaw drop, her eyes grow wide. Alex's shiver traveling up her arm and down her spine into her stomach made her gag and shudder. _Pull the..._ Her brain would not finish the sentence, the thought.

"I... He..." she couldn't get any farther. Horror etched on her face, she could only gape. How could anyone even consider doing that to their best friend? Surely this must have been immediately after the accident, when Ray was more dead than alive, still in pieces, lost deep in oblivion. That she could almost understand, almost forgive. The suggestion had to have been made out of grief, out of guilt and desperation and later retracted.

Voice constricted with revulsion she begged, "Please tell me this was early on?"

"Charles said he was gone, that there was nothing left and there was nothing to hope for." Alex stared past her, unseeing. "I didn't want to believe him. I told him that I wasn't giving up; that Ray was our best friend and our teammate, and he wouldn't abandon us like this. I told him that I knew he wasn't gone, and I was willing to wait until he came back. Forever, if I had to."

Misty nodded silently. Everyone had gotten banged up in that particular fight, even Melody, though she hadn't been present on the front lines. News of Ray's injury had been delayed in coming, and her own injures had slowed her flight to his bedside.

"I'm glad you spoke up for him. I would have said the same thing."

By the time she'd gotten there, the legal ramifications had already been turned over to the NSA. No one had ever asked her opinion, but then, why would they?

Putting both her arms around one of his, Misty leaned her head against Alex's shoulder in a miniature hug. She knew how he must have felt, but it seemed needlessly cruel to say so.

"My partner, my teammate, the _telepath_ told me that he was _gone_, Misty. That there wasn't anything left to save. I didn't agree with him and he called me an idiot. But I was _right_, and if I'd backed down I would have murdered my best friend as surely as if I'd snapped his neck myself." He looked up at her, the anguish plain in his eyes. "And later, I asked him why. Was he - just wrong? Did he miss him somehow? Did he think Ray wouldn't _want_ to live after that much damage had been done?" A trace of worried guilt slipped across his face. "That's all he'd have to say, really. That it was a mistake, that he was sorry. That he was wrong. Or maybe that he didn't think Ray would want to be helpless like that." He buried his face in his hands.

"Oh honey…" Misty stretched her arms around as much of Alex's wide shoulders as she could reach, the motion as much to calm herself as him. "It's okay…" It wasn't- at least not now- but there was, perhaps, hope that things might improve.

For some reason she felt as if she ought to defend Charles, to try to extrapolate a reason for his bizarre actions. Perhaps Ray had been goggling at the pearly gates when Charles had tried to reach for him? But even if that were true, wouldn't he have been able to sense his wandering psyche later? She'd probably never know. She wasn't sure she wanted to. Maybe he _had _felt that life as a quadriplegic would be unbearable for Ray? Perhaps he'd feared Ray might awaken not knowing his friends, his brain so badly damaged that he would never remember them or anything else again? A third possibility nagged at the back of her mind, but she could not believe it, and therefore did not acknowledge it. Thoughts and stomach churning, she did her best to soothe her friend while a choking feeling crept ever higher in her own throat.

"He…he was probably just upset, scared, we all were. We were all nervous he'd either

wake up so damaged he'd barely remember who he was, let alone us; or worse, never wake up at all." Even knowing Ray was alive and intact and probably even awake at that very moment did not help. The words still caught in her throat, too large and terrible to pronounce without choking. "It was probably just… He was only…" But the excuses created emptiness in her mouth and she couldn't find words to make herself finish.

Alex's laugh was brittle, bitter, unlike anything she'd ever heard from him. "He told me," he said, "that he was jealous. Because I loved Ray. Like that made the slightest fucking difference to either of them while Ray was okay; like I'd given him a reason to stop trusting me. Like I'd done a single goddamned thing different. Like it affected how much I loved _him_." He made a strangled noise, somewhere between laugh and sob. "But he was fucking jealous of my best friend, who will never, ever want me as anything but that - jealous enough to let him _die_."

And there it was, the thought she'd refused to recognize, the stark and ugly truth said in Alex's voice. The guys could be oblivious when it came to emotions, especially Ray, who often was so pre-occupied with the future that he sometimes forgot about the present. She'd seen snatches of it here and there, not very often, but for some reason she'd remembered that handful of times when Charles had looked at Ray and Alex with a more envious tint to his green eyes. Despite knowing, she hadn't wanted to believe, _still_ did not want to believe.

"I don't understand..." The words were delicate, as helpless as she felt. She wasn't expecting an answer from Alex or anyone else really, though a reason that would explain away the complete and overarching _wrongness_ of the whole thing would have been nice. More than two years had gone by since the accident, but having this conversation thrust her back in time, as if they were having to make the same terrible decision all over again.

_Jealous enough to let him DIE._

The phrase kept chasing itself through her head, and she clung to Alex, fighting the urge to be sick.

"Alex I'm so sorry...about everything." She was.


	27. Chapter 27

April 15, 1979

"Hello?"

"Hi Misty." It was Ray. "Did you…er…wanna do something this weekend? Friday maybe?"

If he was nervous, there was no other evidence besides the small hitch in mid-sentence. Dear God, was he actually asking her _out_? Misty hardly dared to finish the thought.

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"

"Eh nothing big, maybe some pizza and a video? I'll spring for the pepperoni if you bring the movie."

"Sure sounds great. Is seven too late?"

"It's perfect. I'll see you then."

"See you." Her mad squee of joy could be heard two blocks over.

The first "date" was somewhat uneventful by anyone's standards. Ray met her at the door, propped up with a pair of crutches, and offered her a seat before ambling over himself. There was always at least twelve inches of couch between the two of them, the pizza was good, and the movie amusing. Neither remembered overmuch of the plot, but that was all right. Misty left before eleven and after a gentlemanly handshake. Alex counted the evening a success, if a Puritanical one.

There were others that followed in succession, more movies and more takeout; the number of inches of couch cushion slowly diminishing with each. Having gotten to the last inch and halfway through a period movie that involved a lot of laughable attempts at historical costumes, Misty dared to lay a hand on his shoulder. Ray looked over and smiled, only a hint of shyness around the edges. Lifting a hand, he placed it over hers, taking it in his own, and lowering their interlaced fingers to the cushion between them.

She was smiling like an idiot and didn't care; Ray didn't either if the foolish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth was any indication. Who would have thought a simple touch of hands could ratchet her heart into overdrive, her blood surging through her veins so loudly that it was drowning out the musket fire and shrieks of Shawnee Indians onscreen. Excitement or nerves or perhaps a mix of both had him gripping her hand so tightly that his nails and knuckles were fading to white. A small, dismissible misgiving began tickling at the back of her mind, threatening to spoil the moment.

She lifted their joined hands, taking his in both of hers. The misgiving became louder. Ray's smile had faded, his attention turned elsewhere, and his breath coming in short gasps.

"…Ray?"

Blood draining from his face and small beads of perspiration forming on his brow, he didn't respond, only gasped for air.

"Ray!" Now she was honestly scared. Gripping his hand tightly, she cast desperately for something to do; usually Alex dealt with this and she'd only ever been witness to a handful of his once legendary fits. "Ray, what's wrong?!"

He was clutching his heart with his free hand, his gasps turned to coughing.

"_Ray!_" She dropped his hands and grabbed his shoulders, patting his back as sharply as she dared.

Ray gagged as if surfacing from deep water, choking a bit before his breathing settled. Unsure what else to do, Misty rubbed his back lightly until he'd calmed down enough to answer.

"Are you okay?" she asked, gently placing a hand against his cheek and turning his face towards her. He opened his mouth to speak but got no father. The sudden dead weight jolted her nerves and instincts into action, and she caught him before he could slide off the couch entirely.

"Oh God…"


	28. Chapter 28

April 17, 1979

"He's all right then?"

Dr. Karl Straussen nodded. "No worse for the wear, though I'm still not sure what triggered the fainting spell. Aaron tells me he pushes himself too hard, but I don't think an over-enthusiastic afternoon at the gym is to blame.

"Mmm…" Dr. Julian Xerxes agreed, not bothering to give his thoughts on the matter further articulation. "I have a theory."

"Do you now?"

"Indeed I do."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I would, thank you."

Karl did his best not to roll his eyes as his taller friend spread the contents of a folder on the desk.

"These are the five Clairvoyants we've had on record since the NSA was founded: they range in age from twenty to twenty-three. Anna Miller, Jason Winrythe, Malcolm Dandridge, Elsa Cartwright, and Jonas Seanz."

Karl took the papers and examined them as Julian continued.

"Mr. Seanz holds the record as the oldest Clairvoyant in NSA history. He and his wife celebrated their second wedding anniversary before he died of an aneurysm. Mr. Winrythe was twenty-one when he perished, his twin brother Jonathan died six months later. Ms. Cartwright was one of seven children, she survived her first semester of college, then her best friend transferred out of state. Do you see the pattern?"

"Each of them had a companion of some kind, be it spouse, sibling, or friend."

"Precisely. I'm not yet sure why, but it seems Clairvoyants last longer when they have another soul to lean on."

"Which would explain why Ray managed to live so long; he didn't have one guardian he had two!"

"Quite. I propose an experiment of sorts with our remaining young sooth sayers."

"Assign them guardians."

"Exactly."


	29. Chapter 29

August 24, 1979

Dr. Karl Straussen frowned at the charts set side by side on his desk. Although comparatively gargantuan to its diminutive owner, the desk supported no more paperwork than average for the Head of Surgery. However, surgery was not his foremost concern at the moment. The first document tallied Raymond R. Kalahearn's recovery prior to a certain Pastor's unwarranted attack; the second listed the results of his most recent examination held only this afternoon. It had been over three years since the original accident, almost a full year between the charts.

The results should not have been nearly identical.

True, Raymond had made remarkable progress by anyone's standards. If not for the hand of God and the genius of many talented people, he'd have been cold in the ground long ago. However, Karl had hoped- perhaps foolishly- that the boy's recovery might accelerate if reunited with his friends and teammates. Certainly his morale had improved dramatically, but that seemed to be about all. Raymond was a tireless worker, desperately determined to get back into fighting form- or as much of it as was possible. According to the boys, he was doing well on all fronts. And yet, looking at his own scribbly notations, Karl couldn't help but feel he was missing something.

Raymond had gained almost no weight and precious little muscle mass since waking from his coma. His body remained wiry and rib-thin. Despite a good diet and a reasonable work and therapy schedule, he seemed to tire easily. He'd often admonished the boy about pushing himself too hard, but in his heart, Karl could hardly blame him. Many patients attempting to recover their mobility adopted a rather childish logic: if they worked harder for longer periods of time, they could regain their independence more quickly. Sadly, physical therapy wasn't something that could be rushed.

Frowning, Karl peered at the charts and graphs and hastily scrawled notes as if his X-ray vision might be able to uncover a layer of truth yet unseen. Unfortunately, all he saw was the scarred surface of his desk blotter.

"Problems?"

Muscle striation was as recognizable to Karl as freckles and skin tone. He therefore didn't even blink or bother to refocus immediately; he already knew the face inside and out.

"Julian, see what you make of these."

Dr. Xerxes obligingly took the charts and scrutinized them himself. Although not an MD, it didn't take him long to realize the problem.

"Repeating yourself?"

"Hardly."

"I see. Well I suppose he's making good progress considering."

"I suppose," Karl sighed, accepting the charts again, "but I had hoped he'd be a bit farther along than this."

"Now, now, you're getting as bad as the boy. Have a little patience."

Karl couldn't help twisting his lips in annoyance. "It isn't that. Just look at these, he's made the same or less progress in the same amount of time. Except now he's in a much more hospitable environment with more access to his therapists and other doctors. I had hopes that he'd show increased improvement, even if only by a little."

"And he hasn't?"

"Not at all."

"That is puzzling."

"Tell me about it."

Julian rubbed his chin in thought as Karl did some pondering of his own. "I don't suppose we've missed something? Mina's certain he's in a good place mentally?"

"Yes," Karl nodded, "aside from a few bouts of normal and understandable frustration, she's given him good marks."

"Well we know it's nothing I've done," Julian remarked, referring to the various electronic devices implanted in Ray's body.

"Julian, please."

Julian didn't quite repress a chuckle at his friend's annoyance. "Just checking off the usual suspects. You know, there is one thing we haven't considered."

"And that would be?"

"Are we all completely and unequivocally convinced he's a lost cause?"

Karl had to think about that.

"Well," he began slowly, "aside from the notable incident with this brother-in-law, he's exhibited no symptoms of returning powers, or a manifestation of new abilities. The house psychics deemed him 'mundane' in terms of aura and energy. It's been over three years, and he's barely had so much as a memorable nightmare."

"Yes but his body is only just now beginning to pull itself back together."

"And not very well at that."

"Mmm…" Julian went back to stroking his chin, brows lowered and a distant look in his eyes. "Do we have anyone who could possibly verify this?"

Karl sighed and ran a hand through his hair as Julian drew up a seat for himself.

"I don't really have an inventory roster in front of me. The psychics we have on staff are all mid-level, and none of them really know Raymond intimately."

Julian nodded. "An established relationship of sorts is helpful."

Silence.

"It occurs to me that we are missing the opinion of one very important party," Karl remarked.

"And that would be?"

"Your grandson. Charles."


	30. Chapter 30

September 01, 1979

"Hello?"

"…Pop?" Although not on intimate terms with his grandfather, Charles had still managed to work out appropriate nomenclature for him.

"Yes. Hello, Charles."

"What's up?" Calls were rare, visits fewer still. Whatever the reason for the contact, it was more than likely business-related. They were both more comfortable with that than family matters.

There was silence on the line as Julian searched through mental cue cards. Perhaps it was best to be blunt.

"It's about your friend."

It was Charles' turn to stretch the silence. "Which one?"

As if he didn't know. "Mr. Kalahearn."

Perhaps a beat longer than necessary. "What about him?"

"He's doing well by all accounts, but Dr. Straussen and I were hoping to solicit your opinion on a few things."

"Like what?" If Ray was fine, what the hell were they bothering him for? Although it was nice to know that the guy was alright. Charles simply felt his involvement with the 'Color Kids' had come to a close. They had no use for him, and he had no interest in them.

"Karl feels the boy isn't recovering as well as he could be."

"Pop, the guy nearly had his fuckin' head taken off. He's breathing unaided. That's an accomplishment in and of itself."

"I appreciate the compliment," his grandfather replied, unfazed. "However, I agree with Karl's concerns. You know the Swallowhaven psychics ruled Raymond a Burnout?"

"Old news," Charles scoffed. "Besides, he's better off this way. No more seizures or blood or any of the other fun stuff. He's got his friends _and_ his family talking to him again. Happy endings all around."

"_Charles._"

_Uh-oh__._ The Voice of Adult Authority rippling through the phone lines triggered an automatic cringe down Charles' spine.

"…yes?"

"Don't be an ass. I, for one, am not convinced and there are others who wonder as well. Besides, I think an explanation is owed concerning your recent behavior."

"Regarding what?"

"Why you weren't there to welcome him home."

"The hell I do," Charles growled. "He knows damn well why I wasn't there."

"I assure you, he does not." Julian insisted, his tone becoming more brisk and business-like with each syllable. "As a matter of fact, I'm rather curious about it myself. However, that's your business. Regardless, I think it would please him to see you again. He hasn't said as much, but it's fairly obvious he misses you."

Charles let his arm drop to one side, his grandfather's words circling in his mind. Alex must not have said anything. Then again, why would he? Why should he, Charles, bother with any of this? What did he owe any of them? And yet…

Raising the phone to his ear once more, he spoke.

"When do you need me?"


	31. Chapter 31

August 5, 1977

It was an eerie feeling; like doing CPR on a ghost. Viridian sat wide-eyed, unblinking. One hand clenched in Cadmium's, he gripped the limp appendage all the tighter for its lack of reciprocal pressure. The body on the gurney stared blankly at the ambulance ceiling, one eye smashed to a bloody, oozing pulp beneath the mask, the other half-open, glazed and vacant. There was nobody in there; or there wouldn't be if not for Viridian's clinging to the last thread of Cadmium's psyche like a child with an overlarge bundle of helium balloons on a windy day. He dared not relax for a second, not even to gain a better grip.

There were a lot of flat places that should have been three-dimensional. Most of Cadmium's right leg and all of his left was misshapen and oddly squashed from where the cinder blocks had tumbled down on top of him. The left arm had nearly been ripped off at the shoulder and lay bent at odd angles everywhere _except_ the elbow. It was a misconception that red clothing hid bloodstains; the super suit certainly wasn't doing anything to mask the darker, sticky liquid that had pooled among the saturated Imperviall fibers. He guessed it wasn't so impervious after all.

_Because of Charles' psychic abilities, it was primarily Alex who had the unique honor of Ray-sitting. Ray's fits could range anywhere from almost indistinguishable to violent. When he collapsed and began jerking, it was Alex's job to hold him still._

_He did so now, his arms carefully frozen in place around Ray's smaller body, his head cradled in the crook of one elbow, torso pinned safely against his own with his other arm. Ray was the smallest out of the three of them, short and slender as a rail. __A__lways vaguely afraid of accidentally breaking his friends, Alex was particularly__ gentle with__ Ray. Perhaps it was the seizures that made him seem so much more delicate._

_Ray's jerking had faded back to mild tremors, the vessel in his nose finally clotting closed. Taking the damp washcloth Charles had ready, __Alex__ sponged Ray's face and neck clean. Ray, completely out, offered no protest but hung limp and leaden in his arms. The black __hoodie__ and red __t__-shirt were peeled off and thrown in the wash along with Alex's rugby jersey. Ray's sweatshirt existed for the sole purpose of absorbing nosebleed blood and Alex's jersey was made to take more abuse than the average garment was meant to suffer. The__ shirts__, like their owners, would emerge in the morning unstained and no worse for their sticky misadventure. _

_Ray was still shivering, but from cold instead of mental strain. He was more or less comatose now, but venting __so much__ energy had left him exhausted and chilled, his pale skin cold to the touch. Gathering him close, Alex tucked him up against one __bare __shoulder and cradled him like a four-year-old, letting Ray steal some warmth for himself. After a few minutes he relaxe__d and__ the shivering ceased, his breathing soft but even._

_They got him into a clean t-shirt and sweat pants in which to spend the rest of the night while the washing machine dealt with __their__ bloody clothes. Alex scooped him up and easily carried him across the hall to his own room. __He__ had only a small single bed, but insisted that was all he needed. The only ones to share it with him were the trio of toys lined up on the pillow against the headboard: a raggedy Cowardly Lion complete with blue bow in its mane, a scruffy little hound dog with black button eyes and a red bandanna around its neck, and a battle-stained Kermit the Frog, clearly the favorite of the lot if it's well-loved condition was any indication. Charles__ watched as Alex__ tucked the fuzzy amphibian under the blankets with Ra__y__. Leaning, Alex reached and smoothed his bangs from __Ray's__ eyes__ and lightly__ kissed __his forehead._

The EMTs made him think of Laurel and Hardy; one was tall and lanky, the other short and stocky. The tall one squeezed the oxygen bottle while the short one gingerly pumped Ray's shattered ribs. Viridian sat by feeling useless, thoughts cramping around the tenuous hold he had on Cadmium's being. It had been pure reflex to reach and grab at the last trailing phantom threads. Instinct kept him holding on just as instinct kept the EMTs rhythmically working away like men pounding a stake through a railroad tie.

_Charles groaned at the soft scratch at the door. It was Ray, there was no one else it could possibly be._

"_Come in…" he mumbled into his pillow and automatically scooching closer to the edge of the mattress. The door whisked lightly across the carpet and then closed again with a soft click. A sudden slant at the foot of the mattress proved Ray was making his way to his customary spot in the middle. Like a child suffering from nightmares, he occasionally came and sought shelter in his friend's thoughts as well as their bed. Granted, this was Ray; all he did was take up space._

_Turning, Charles squinted in the near-darkness at the other two men squeezed onto the mattress with him. Still in the act of getting settled, Ray lifted his head and offered a weak smile in the way of thanks. It wasn't possible to fake that sort of waxy paleness or the cold sweat beading his forehead beneath his bangs. The tremble in his limbs wasn't imaginary either. Rousing himself slightly, Alex made room on his own side, and lifted an arm to place around his friend, drawing him close. Ray gladly submitted, settling close with Kermit tucked to his chest, his head on Alex's shoulder._

Alex was the only element missing from this scene. Otherwise, it was very much the same as it had always been; the blood, the drama. Lying there, soaking the gurney pad faster than the transfusion bag could replenish, Ray could hardly flit an eyelash let alone descend into _grand mal_ poly-coly, secured as he was in so much plastic bracing. Everything but his neck had been strapped down; the section of I-beam still stuck out on either end behind his head. They'd had to cut around it rather than risk him losing all his blood at once from the wound.

He was in pieces, more than just physically. The thin thread of psyche between his thoughts was proof enough of that. The lights had been smashed out of their sockets and nobody was home because the spirit had been driven away by so much vandalism. How the hell the hospital thought they were going to fix this, Charles didn't know. What was there to fix? Because, he realized, there wasn't anything, not really. The toothpaste had already been squeezed from the tube. There was no reversing this. No one could force a mess like that back into consciousness. Not his father, not Dr. Straussen, not anyone. It would be cruel to even try. The weight of responsibility for a life not his own should have lain heavily in Viridian's hands. Oddly enough, it left him feeling strangely light.

_Ray __sat__ half-curled against him, watching television. It was true that Ray had been particularly clingy as of late. Alex had dismissed it as a product of exhaustion, of his feeling tired and sick and overwhelmed. But __Charles__ had seen something more. _

"_It's always __your__ lap he curl__s__ up in,__"__ Charles pointed out. __"__When he crawl__s__ into bed with __us__, he always sle__e__p__s__ facing __you__. It's __you__ that __he__ cl__i__ng__s__ to, crie__s__ for, h__a__ng__s__ onto desperately when he's bleeding all over everything. __ He just won't say it, he can't say it, probably doesn't even realize it because he's been fucking brainwashed!"_

_Alex had only gawped at him stupidly. "Charles, that's absurd_. _This is_ Ray_. He barely knows what romance is. He's not into anyone or anything let alone me." _

_Charles' scowl deepened. "Is it?"_

Into his mind came the image of a rose-colored balloon floating higher and higher into the night sky, straight through the clouds towards the stars. Around him the machines went on beeping and sighing, the ambulance siren wailed, traffic lights flashed past the windows, Laurel and Hardy pumped and pressed, everything went on exactly as it had been for the last five minutes. Nothing changed. But he didn't have the heart to tell them they were wasting their efforts on a corpse.


	32. Chapter 32

September 17, 1979

"Charles!"

If they hadn't told him he'd be interviewing Ray, he never would have associated the guy seated awkwardly in the padded wooden chair with the crutches across his lap as his former teammate. 'Friend' felt like a bit of a stretch right now. The last time he'd seen Ray was before he'd been packed off to the East Coast with his crazy, Fundie parents. A lot of him had still been wrapped up in slings and bandages, his jaw wired shut so that even talking was difficult. Evidently he was mobile again, even if that movement was limited. The sports-car-red aluminum crutches indicated that much. However, it wasn't the NSA provided medical equipment so much as the person that made it hard not to stare.

This wasn't Ray. This _couldn't_ be Ray. Between the accident and time with his parents, two years seemed to have become twenty on his face. No one would dare try to card him now. The boyish features had wasted into lines and hollows, making him look ten years older than he really was instead of the other way around. The wardrobe was the same (now two sizes too large), the voice, the eyes (though one was glass), the smile (if slightly more crooked due to shattered bone and heavy scarring), but this was hardly the young man he remembered. If Ray had had an older brother, he might have looked something like this.

Not even five minutes and already Charles was finding it difficult to hold on to his anger.

Ray was struggling to stand, to shove his weight forward and get his crutches and legs under him. This was wasted strength and effort in Charles opinion, especially if Doctors' Pop and Straussen wanted him to mentally examine the guy.

"Don't get up," he told him, taking a seat for himself.

"Good to see you, man." Ray was smiling ear to ear, though his lips remained closed. His happiness seemed so earnest, so genuine, and Charles couldn't decide if he was annoyed or not. Hadn't Alex chosen Ray over him?

"You too." Oddly, the words came out tasting half-true; not quite as bitter as a complete lie. "Dr. Xerxes said you'd noticed my absence."

"Yeah…" There was a guardedness in his voice and remaining eye, prompting the hardness to creep back into Charles' heart.

"You know how things go. Sometimes you just need your space, right?"

Ray only nodded. "I…you probably don't want to talk about that. They, um…" An awkward pause. If he didn't know, he suspected. He also suspected the reason for his friend's leaving was his fault. His guilt brought a cold sense of grim satisfaction to Charles' heart.

"Dr. Karl said you might be able to help."

"Yeah. Anything specific?"

Ray shrugged. "I…mainly just wanted to see you. I doubt there's really anything to be done."

He believed the Burnout ruling, then. Charles silently agreed with him, but offered his hand anyway. A distant part of him was going to take malicious pleasure in this. Ray eyed the extended palm and hesitantly placed his own on top of it.

There had always been mental sparks whenever their fingers met, but this time there was nothing. As Charles stretched and eyed his friend's spirit, Ray's being registered as eerily dim and silent. At one time Ray's psyche had been a warm cranberry red, bright and glowing like a holiday candle, the hum of his thoughts a soft, light note like the final strains of a violin solo that never completely faded away. The mangled phantom before him reminded him more of the crazy straw he'd accidentally put through the dishwasher: bleached to an ashen color and melted completely out of shape. The once brilliant light of his soul was little more than a flickering spark, the dizzying twists of spiritual chord that made up his being hung limp and tattered, the frayed threads hanging broken where they should have been knotted tight. There should have been a little string of Christmas lights going up his spine, but at the moment Ray's chain of energy was more reminiscent of a motel marquis with half the bulbs missing; the remaining few stuttering weakly at best.

"Jesus…" Charles muttered.

"What do you want Him for?" Ray quipped, resurrecting the old joke. Charles didn't quite manage to squelch the half-smile that followed.

"Don't they have an army of healers assigned to you?"

"More like a platoon."

At least he hadn't injured his sense of humor. "Then you need more. You're a hell of a mess inside."

"…they only handle the physical end. Not like I need anything more these days."

To this Charles said nothing, too intent on examining the metaphysical damage- of which there was plenty. Someone _had_ made an attempt at cleaning him up, but the fixes were old, probably dating from the original accident. The patches and cauterizations were little more than battle dressings, field triage, and Charles wasn't convinced that the metaphysical medic had truly understood what he or she was doing. No other work had been done that he could see. However, if Ray had been ruled a Burnout, that might explain the lack of any further psychic care. Everyone had probably assumed there was nothing left to care _for_. Without his powers, Ray was just another average human being, and the mental and spiritual realms therefore became the territory of psychologists and religious leaders. Maybe that crazy faith of his was good for something after all? There certainly wasn't anything else holding him together.

"Mind if I come in?"

Again, Ray hesitated, but eventually nodded, lowering his head and closing his eyes. Charles allowed himself to ghost forward, reaching and stepping into his friend's mind.

_Holy shit, Ray._

Ordinarily Ray's common space resembled a cozy cross of office and library. Books, folders, and filing cabinets lined the walls. Wingback chairs and a large sofa were arranged around an inviting fireplace stacked with roaring logs in the grate, and pictures on the glossy wood mantel. Lamps stood nearby on convenient end tables, and a desk piled with papers and memos took up the rear of the room. Now, however, his mindscape looked as if it had been hit by the proverbial tornado.

At least, what was visible looked tornado-ravaged. It was nearly pitch dark, the only ambience coming from a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, its meager light almost smothered by the broken shade. He watched for a moment as the light surged briefly bright and yellow, and then faded to orange and then red and nearly died out only to rev back up again as if powered by an old-fashioned generator.

Furniture lay upended and broken, lamps smashed, glass and china fragments embedded in the rug. Books and papers lay everywhere, gaps in the shelves indicating the spaces they'd once occupied. Stooping, he gingerly lifted one of the photos from where it had fallen face-down on the stone heath. It was a large one, the little brass plaque attached to the wood frame read "Best Friends". There were almost too many people to count crammed into the huge group photo. At the front, however, two people remained seated and perfectly still: Alex, and, oddly, himself. Scowling, Charles let the picture drop on its face again and reached for a smaller frame. This one was silver, done in an elegant Art Nouveau style. Unsurprisingly, a female face smiled back at him. Misty? Confused, Charles scanned the frame for the accompanying label: Girlfriend.

_Fuck._

_No thanks._ Ray's phantom had ambled up to him. _Sorry about the mess. Been trying to clean it up._

Charles whipped the photo behind his back before Ray could see it. _Right…_

He needn't have worried. In the near-total darkness it was difficult to see a distance of more than arm's length. He almost wished he couldn't see what was left of his friend. Ray's mental image of himself wasn't much better than the imagined library. It looked flat and two-dimensional; pieces had either been sliced off or gouged out so that it resembled an inexpertly cut out paper doll. Charles himself was beginning to feel as if he were missing a few integral pieces.

Ray's ghostly paper doll went about rummaging in the darkness, attempting to gather shards of glass from the braided rug, but succeeding only in getting his fingers further shredded on the razor edges.

_Don't worry about that now,_ he told him, gingerly reaching and taking Ray by one tissue-flimsy wrist. _How long has it been like this?_

Paper-Ray shrugged. _I dunno. Since the accident._

Charles peered at the flickering light bulb, its glow briefly illuminating its brass fixture and darkened fellows before fading again.

_How come that one's still on?_

_No clue. Emergency back-up, I guess._

Emergency back-up? Charles fought for focus as his thoughts whirled frantically. Giving up, he allowed himself to remanifest in his own mind, leaving Ray alone in his ruins.

"Well?"

Charles took a moment to arrange his thoughts into words. He owed him this much and more.

"The Doc's are right," he said, watching Ray's eyes widen to the proportions of an anime character, "and I think I _can_ help."

The glomp wasn't entirely unexpected, but his breath still caught in his throat as he put his arms around the smaller man to return the hug. The lightly-trembling shoulders told him Ray was crying, quietly and to himself, hoping that Charles wouldn't notice. He did, of course, but Charles, tears streaming down his cheeks, had macho points of his own to worry about.

_God save us all from our fucking male stupidity. Ray, I swear I'll make this up to you. I will. I promise._


	33. Chapter 33

September 19, 1979

"The hell's up with all the white coats?" Charles asked, shrugging out of his own jacket as he entered the room.

"This is a teaching hospital," Dr. Straussen reminded him. "As such, you'll have a few observers, that is of course as long as it won't interfere with your work."

"I'm not a teacher," Charles stated flatly. "Either I work alone, or I don't work at all."

"Charles?" Dr. Xerxes spoke up, voice frosted with icy courtesy. "A word?"

Leaving Dr. Straussen and his gaggle of lab coats silently gaping after them, Charles followed his grandfather out into the hall. Once there, Julian gently closed the door and then rounded on his grandson with one of the most fearsome scowls of filial outrage Charles had ever seen.

"The fuck did I do now?" Charles demanded in a stage whisper.

"Shut up," Julian snapped. Charles shut up, if only out of shock from the sudden vehemence in his grandfather's voice.

"I don't know what the hell your problem is, but you'd best either get over it or put it aside."

"I—" Charles began.

"_Don't_ interrupt me," Julian warned. "Now is neither the time nor the place for personal grudges. There is a person in need. Help him. No one is asking anything more of you than to simply _do your job_. You don't have to like it, just do it. Do I make myself clear?

Charles frowned momentarily at the thought of the half-dozen eager young pill pushers looking over his shoulder while he did his best to duct tape his friend's psyche, but after a moment decided his grandfather had a point. Day saving- life saving- shouldn't be a matter of personal preference. Besides, if he taught the white coats what to do, odds were they wouldn't need him to hang around.

"Alright"

Turning, he entered the room once more. Dr. Straussen and the others looked up expectantly.

"Sorry," he offered half-heartedly, "wasn't anticipating an audience today."

Dr. Straussen nodded, accepting the veiled apology.

"I apologize for not warning you, Mr. Porter." One of the taller young men present stepped forward and offered Charles a long-fingered hand. "I'm Dr. Eddy McPherson and these are my students. They've been assisting in Ray's therapy. This is uncharted territory for us and we're all eager to hear any suggestions you may have."

"Pleasure," Charles murmured, eying the hand for a moment before turning back to Ray.

"You cool with the peanut gallery?" he asked, thumbing at the assembled med students. The subject in question was already laid flat if fully dressed on the bed in the middle of the room.

"Most of these guys have already seen me naked more times than we'd care to remember," he stated completely straight-faced. "My soul can't be any scarier than that."

This prompted a snerk Charles was powerless to suppress. He'd rather missed his friend's self-deprecating humor. "All right, just making sure your legendary modesty wouldn't suffer."

Stepping forward, Charles eyed the men and women crowding around the bed. He recognized a few here and there from the early days of Ray's treatment, but about half of them he'd never seen before. Perhaps it would be best to take inventory before he got started.

"All right class, show of hands. How many here are telepaths of some sort?"

Two.

"Okay, healers?"

Three, including Eddy.

"And what the hell are you?" he asked the remaining physician without sarcasm or malice. The young man blinked at the swearing, but otherwise took no offense.

"X-Ray vision. I'm mostly here to get integrated."

"Right…" Great. Only two of them would really be able to follow along without help then. A daisy chain wasn't exactly what he'd wanted to do today but it was probably the best way to keep everyone involved.

"Okay, here's what we're going to do," he told them, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging out of it, glad he'd thought to wear an undershirt. "I am going to need my hands to work. Telepaths, get between the healers. No, no," he corrected, pulling the misplaced surgeon over to stand beside him and placing the young man's hand on his own bare shoulder. "You're hanging out with me. No taking notes today. Everyone else join hands or find some other method of hospital approved skin-to-skin contact. That way, we can all see what's going on."

With everyone arranged, he turned his attention to Ray, lying patiently on the bed.

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

Extending one arm, Charles pushed a finger against the skin between Ray's eyebrows; gently pressing his head back against the pillow. That had always been the location of Ray's "on/off" switch to his eyes. It would be better to do this in safe mode.

"G'night…" The word was said more to himself than to the attending physicians or even to Ray. For a moment he simply stood there, watching as his friend powered down and sank into unconsciousness. Thoughts and feelings swirled in Charles' mind behind thick walls. Some part of him still felt envious of the little man, though without the bitterness that had turned that envy into a jealousy so venomous that it had eaten away at the most precious bond he'd had. His thoughts and emotions were his own and the onlookers could only see what he wanted them to see. And they sure as hell didn't need to see that. Taking the mental step back, he let the white coats tap into a select current of his power.

Right now, what Charles saw phantom-like, superimposed on his friend's body resembled the uncovered inside of a robot- after someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The physical corrections that his grandfather and Dr. Karl had made were evident, but the psychic damage remained in all its appalling impressiveness. He managed to stop short at calling out the attending psychics; realizing distantly how minimal their own power was in comparison to his. It wasn't truly their fault, they'd be fine for most things, but a wreck of this level would be beyond almost anyone's capability. Looking over the sad remains of Ray's psyche, Charles tried to decide where to start. His eager young space cadets were also staring, goggle-eyed at the mess.

Eddy, stammering like a bespectacled parody of Jimmy Stewart, sniffed vainly against welling tears. "I knew he was hurt," the man choked, "but I could never _see_ it…"

One of the female empaths had broken the chain to press both hands over her mouth, her complexion fading rapidly from white to green. With a sharp jab of one finger, Charles pointed her toward the nearest trashcan. Turning, she hurried to make use of it.

"I don't understand…" another trailed off. "Why didn't I…why didn't _any_ of us see this?"

"Because he wouldn't let you."

It took Charles a belated moment to realize the words had left his mouth, and another to realize that they were true. Still stricken by the revelation, he could only listen as his voice explained what his brain had only recently processed.

"Ray's always been shy about himself, but especially about his powers. He doesn't really know any of you, and therefore he doesn't trust you."

_But he trusts _me… Only a few days ago Ray had swallowed hard and placed his hand in his, lowering what little shielding he had left and invited Charles into his mind and soul. Ray's self-consciousness often bordered on shame, and allowing someone- even a friend as close as Charles- to see him stripped to his mental phantom was no small feat. The relationship between Ray and himself had always had a sort of nervous tension to it because of that. With no mental abilities of his own, Alex had been allowed a small half-step closer, the privilege of intimacy without fear spreading the first ripples of jealousy in Charles' heart. However, a feature unique to all of Ray's relationships was that they were only so close; allowing for mental, intellectual, and even emotional intimacy but stopping short at the physical. Even Misty- especially Misty- had been granted extra distance because he felt so strongly towards her. How much more, then, would he hide from a stranger, even if they were trying to help?

"He probably didn't even know he was doing it," Charles went on, mind and voice once again in synch. "And since everyone was convinced he'd burned out, well, why bother probing more extensively?"

Eddy still had one outsized hand spread over his face, obscuring his features completely. "I wanted to help him…I tried to patch him as best I knew how, I knew it wasn't enough but…"

Dammit, he wasn't any good at this. "Dude. It's okay. It's not your fault. We all fucked up. We all should have seen this sooner. Bottom line, we know now and there's still time to do something."

The verbal slap seemed to do the trick, for Eddy shook himself and lowered his hand, his lean features firmed into a look of gawky determination.

"You're right. Where do we start?"

Where indeed? Perhaps it might be wise to initiate a brief tutorial. If nothing else, with so many attending physicians at least he had a ready supply of labor. Once shown what to do, they could help with some of the more basic cleanup.

"Okay, I realize you're all interpreting the damage differently but that isn't going to affect what we need to do all that much. I'm an engineer; I tend to use computer terms. I personally don't care if you don't know shit about hardware and software; it shouldn't really matter because we're all looking at the same thing. See this?" He pointed to spot of what to him appeared to be badly smashed and corroded circuitry. "This is what happens to chakra bits if you don't put them back right away. The energy leaks into the surrounding tissue and damages it." Shifting, Charles ran his hand up the length of Ray's spine. "You can see all along his main power cable where the nodes have been damaged or in some cases smashed completely. I am going to work on this. What I want you guys to do is pick out and dispose of the shrapnel and damaged bits. Observe."

With thumb and forefinger, Charles leaned and carefully dislodged a tiny, glass-like sliver. Once out, he examined it closely. Under all the dirt, the shard was faintly sage-colored and felt vaguely warm.

"See this? This is part of him. Ray's color is red- maroon, mauve, cadmium- he's rose-colored right down to the bone. However, once you get it out of him, you'll see these little pieces have their own distinct color and signature. You find any; you give those to me. I'll put them back where they belong."

Testing the fragment for a moment, it seemed to say "heart" and so he set it in one of the smashed brackets along Ray's spine near his chest. The assistants ooh-ed as it settled into its appropriate place, balancing on end seemingly without support, glowing faintly green like a tiny blade of grass.

Charles stooped and repeated the process with a second shard. This one came away more grudgingly, revealing itself to be jagged and rusty, like a corroded bit of metal.

"This," Charles instructed, holding it up, "is shrapnel. You pick it out, and you throw it away." He tossed the piece over his shoulder where it evaporated in mid-flight. "However, what I want all of you to do is save all the scraps you find for me to look at later. I don't want anyone tossing something important. Got it?"

They got it.

Glancing up from time to time to make sure everyone else was on task; Charles discovered it was actually rather interesting to watch them while they worked. The surgeon, lips pressed together, was carefully lifting fragments with pointer and middle finger as if they were a set of tweezers and depositing the bits on the palm of his other hand. The empath who'd been sick was daintily picking out pieces with thumb and forefinger before dropping them into her cupped fingers. Eddy, with his huge hands, seemed to be concentrating on a slightly different form of cleanup. Eyes half-lidded and attention turned inward, he moved his hands slowly, deliberately over Ray's body. The tall doctor had spoken truthfully; he could tell where the wounds were, but he was unable to see them. Not bothering to attempt extraction with his huge fingers, he instead spread his palms over the areas the others had cleaned, a vague smile that had probably been a long time in coming tugging at his lips as tissue that should have healed months ago finally truly began to pull itself back together.

After about two hours, Charles called a halt. Attempting a job this mammoth solo would have left him with a splitting headache. However, with so much help, a lot had been accomplished and less than half the energy expended. Indeed, no one else seemed ready to quit. Perhaps, he mused, a teaching hospital wasn't such a bad thing after all.


	34. Chapter 34

October 2, 1979

"First, there are a couple of things you need to know about Ray," Charles began, taking a seat before a host of medical professionals. This included his grandfather, Dr. Karl, Dr. Mina, Ray's old friend Eddy, and a myriad of others he didn't know by name.

"First, he is _not_ a Burnout." Excited murmurs immediately rose, threatening to drown out any further explanation but Charles held up a hand. The conference room grew quiet again.

"He's not a Burnout, but I can see how easy it must have been to misdiagnose him. Metaphysically he's trashed, but he's not beyond help. If we can put his psyche back together, his physical body should follow.

"Second, when Ray was still active duty and living with Alex and I, he routinely had power issues. The guy's basically a satellite dish and he can't control the amount of input he gets. Even after he'd learned how to regulate the visions, there would be times when he'd get in over his head. He _needs_ other people to maintain his stability. I think this boils down to a multitasking issue: he can't redirect so much data _and_ interact with Real Life, so he tends to use people around him as backup memory. He isn't feeding off of them so much as using them like a render farm, borrowing their unused power to bolster his own. Alex in particular is perfect for that since he's huge and has no mental abilities himself."

The chagrined blush threatening to creep above his collar could not be helped. He'd be kicking himself for months for jumping to conclusions like a stupid high school kid. God, how old was he? Misty would have said he was only seven in Girl Years. Some days he wondered.

"Dr. Karl, I believe you have data that backs up this theory?"

The petite surgeon nodded. "Yes, it would seem that all the Clairvoyants on record did better when in the company of a companion."

"There's your answer, then. Clairvoyants, at least one's as powerful as Ray, need a guardian of some kind, both to watch out for them until they get the hang of the whole visions thing, and to help them sift through the cosmic energy flooding their brains."

"Excellent, we've got a working plan for any further Clairvoyants," Dr. Xerxes commented, steering the conversation back towards the topic at hand, "but what shall we do about Raymond?"

"Your problem there is he can't seem to hold a charge," Charles explained. "He's burning everything he's got just trying to heal his physical body. If he keeps up like this, he'll end up like my father and do himself permanent damage."

Silence settled heavily over the group as everyone pondered the implications.

"I don't want to see that happen to my best friend." Though the words caught in his throat, it felt good to say them. "He'll instinctively pull on another super to try to supplement the lack of his own energy. It isn't much, and it isn't intentional, but right now a large part of him is focused on survival, plain and simple."

"That would explain his anxiety over being alone," Dr. Mina mused aloud.

"And why my treatments only did so much," Eddy agreed.

"So he'll need a nurse of sorts until he's powered up enough to begin drawing in energy again himself?" Dr. Xerxes asked.

"Pretty much. Somebody- or better yet, several somebodies- who are really Zen and laid-back like Alex. It wouldn't be a bad idea to appoint someone to be his personal, full-time buddy, either. Actually, I'm pretty sure I can get a volunteer without any trouble."

Julian quirked a suspicious eyebrow, but Charles just smiled.


	35. Chapter 35

December 22, 1979

"…what is this?"

"Your diagnosis and prescription."

"Are you sure you didn't confuse this with the Dear Abbey column?"

"No, why?"

"Because I'm pretty sure I can't pick up 'Get Married' at the pharmacy."

Charles smiled at Ray's boggled expression.

"You're not a Burnout, dude, but you will be if you keep pushing yourself like this. Therefore, as your unofficial psychic therapist, I am prescribing you a healthy dose of Girlfriend. You need the energy boost, but you also need the usual mushy stuff just as badly. Face it man, you need to be hugged, and why not be hugged by a pretty girl who happens to think you're the most wonderful man on earth?"

"Um…" was Ray's inarticulate reply.

"Besides, how else are you going to recover so much energy at once?"

It took Ray a few seconds to figure out the implied meaning and another heartbeat for his face to turn scarlet.

"_CHARLES!_"

"Well, I knew your precious moral code wouldn't allow you to have any fun _without_ some wedding vows. You've already known each other for over five years; you may as well get off your ass and ask her. Besides, it's for your health," he finished, nodding seriously.

"You're enjoying this far too much," Ray groused, mostly joking.

"Damn right," Charles grinned. "Of course I don't expect you to get down on one knee _tonight_."

"I should hope not."

"In all seriousness, you can't begin to handle female affection until you build up your reserves on a more platonic variety. Dr. Karl told me about that one date. Sounds like what happened at church- too much at once. But as soon as you're strong enough, I am totally having Eddy prescribe make-out sessions for you."

Ray rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that. Eddy's even more conservative than I am."

"Hey, anything for the health of his bestest-best friend, right?"

Despite himself, Ray had to laugh.


End file.
